


A Trueborn Prince

by cherubicwindigo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, POV Multiple, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-03-18 10:29:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3566393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherubicwindigo/pseuds/cherubicwindigo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brash and confident Prince Gendry Baratheon felt like the luckiest man in the land. Until his mother's secret came out and his world crumbled into dust overnight. Cersei and Jaime Lannister fled with their sons to escape the king's fury. Only Myrcella was left behind, now a hostage instead of a princess. One day, he would have the power to set everything right again.</p><p>A cold wind blows from the north...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tidings of Scandal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic will contain explicit sexual content. There will be no mention of actual ages so feel free to age anyone as you like in your head-space. If my art sets don't match your mindset, then just ignore them.

# Ned

He would rather be in bed, warm in his wife's embrace, instead of out in this blustery frozen night. Few people in Winterfell knew about the Others, only he, his sons, Ser Rodrik, and Jory Cassel. On this unforgiving night, he took the two Cassel men out on patrol around the walls. Every fortnight they extended their range, leaving the safety of the castle. A lifetime of hiding emotions helped keep his face impassive as they rode out of the gates.

A lord's work is to protect his people and tonight he would go far from Winterfell to do just that. The gods blessed him with a loving wife and five healthy children. He repaid those blessings by fulfilling his duties as a leader to the best of his ability. Inwardly, fear tightened his gut and throat, yet he could not show it in front his men. Then they might start to panic and a frightened man cannot be bought or swayed by loyalty.

"Any sightings?" Ned scanned the trees for any movement but only saw darkness and swirling snow. Next time he would borrow Summer from Bran to use her acute sense of smell.

"Not since the last," Rodrik voice sounded even gruffer in this cold air. "No wildlings either, none that we can see."

"Make sure the men know," Ned urged his horse forward. "I want any Wildlings caught alive so they can tell me more." The day Robb and Theon captured the wildling, Osha: everything changed. Her story sounded similar to the tale whimpered by Will, the Night's Watch deserter. Ned put a sword through the poor lad's neck for it. That's when Bran's green dreams started, a warning from the Gods, and he began these patrols. His son begged him not to go out one night but he ignored the boy's plea. Robb and Jon went with him that day, a decision he would always regret.

"It'll done as ordered, my lord." Ser Rodrik rode alongside while his quiet son followed close behind them. "Most would say or do anything to save their lives." Ned nodded because he believed the same of Osha when she first arrived. That she was spinning tales, using fear of the unknown to convince him to set her free. Not long after her capture, Osha told the whole truth. Her lover came back from the dead and tried to kill her. Fear was in her eyes, but far less than genuine anguish. He imagined his beautiful wife as an undead creature and it shook him to the core.

"My lord," Jory's horse trotted to match Ned's pace. "It might be time," his head bowed respectfully. "To inform the men what we are up against." That thought occurred to him many times over the last weeks of sleepless nights. Will's young thin face floated before his eyes, the lad was no more or less a coward than anyone. He ran because what he saw was so terrifying it could make even the bravest hero tuck tail and run. The day they encountered the Other and his wights, there was nowhere to run.

"I don't need my men scared for their lives." Ned would not call them cowards for running from this unholy threat. If only he knew the truth before condemning Will's for deserting the Night's Watch. The lad was not deserter but living message from the Others. They wanted a fight with prepared opponents as all great conquerors do. "When our allies have gathered in full strength, the truth will be made known."

"I still hope you'll be sending your family south," Rodrik already mentioned the idea several times. "They would be safe with Lord Tully in Riverrun."

"They are of the north," he gave the same answer every time. "House Stark cannot show weakness now." Ned had no idea how to fight these creatures but a show of strength helps in any conflict. "Or all will crumble," he murmured to himself.

"There!" Jory jabbed his extended forefinger in the direction of the thick woods to their right. "I saw... something shining." Ned peered into the swirling gray snow covering the silhouette of trees. His eyes grew dimmer as he aged and the swirls of snow all but blinded him.

"Might be your eyes playing tricks," Rodrik barely spoke above a whisper. "Or a wolf, since it's their time to be out."

"Watch," Jory hand trembled as he kept it pointed at the trees. Ned saw a flash of small glowing blue dots watching them through the trees. Then a shadowed figure, tall and thin, stepped out of the trees and into the moonlight. The Other stood tall and proud, holding its erect spear ready.

"Gods save us," Rodrik choked on the words, seeing the creature for the first time. Ned wondered if the elder man felt the same: as a scared child facing fabled monsters. At any moment, this thing might unleash unspeakable powers and destroy them.

"He's showing himself, not even hiding!" Jory's voice cracked with panic, exactly what they needed to avoid. "What does it mean?"

"It means," Ned tightened his hold on the reins, "we need help to arrive soon." He shouted and dug his heels into the horse's flank, spurring it towards Winterfell. They galloped to the castle walls as fast as their horses could run in this bitter cold air. Men and beasts panted with fear and exhaustion after the gates closed behind them. With a few final orders, he let the two Cassel men find their beds. His eyelids drooped as he hurried to his chamber but found the path blocked by Bran.

"Father," he stepped out of the shadows and into the center of the hall. Bran stood taller than his father now but too thin from sleepless nights. The lad looked tired all the time, with permanent rings of shadow under his eyes.

"Bran, you should be asleep in your bed." Ned pitied the trouble his son had sleeping because of the green dreams. He would not pray for the visions to cease, even to spare his child some suffering. If not for Bran's foresight, they would not even know what was coming for them.

"I wanted to wait for you," he appeared to hesitate as if wanting to say more.

"How did you know I went out?" Ned put an arm around his son and led him down the hall towards their chambers. "A green dream again?"

"This time it was different somehow." Bran was usually forthcoming about his dreams, though what he described rarely made sense. Now the lad seemed reluctant and almost embarrassed, which only disconcerted Ned further. "Something is coming but I don't know what or when, soon perhaps."

"The Others?" Fear gripped Ned's chest: they were not ready to face an army of undead.

"No," he shook his head, "I feel in some way help is coming." Bran held something back but Ned focused on the encouraging part.

"I pray your feeling is true," Ned felt the tension release from his shoulders. "Not long ago I wrote to the king, asking for his help. I will take hope from your dream that he read my letter."

"Father," Bran paused again and looked as if weighing options in his mind. "I would like to write to the Green Priests on the Isle of Faces. These visions are puzzling at best and usually confounding. Perhaps the holy men can help me interpret what I've seen."

"I would allow it if I could," Ned truly wished his son could find peace of mind. "The ravens might be intercepted into the wrong hands. We can't have the kingdom thrown into a panic at such a fragile time."

"Why is the time so fragile?" Bran's ignorance meant the news of the queen's indiscretion had not spread yet. Lord Tywin Lannister has always been a man of great ego and pride. He might contest the king's accusation of treason against Cersei Lannister. That would spur the kingdom into a war of wealth and royal powers, splitting the realm. Every lord in the land has to stand together against the Others to survive them.

"Never mind that," he gently grasped his son by the shoulders. "Go on to your bed and get some rest," he steered the lad towards his chamber. "Come to me straightaway if you have another green dream."

"Yes father," Bran trudged wearily to his door and went inside. Ned inhaled a deep breath, held it for a moment, and exhaled slow. He finally approached the door to his chamber but hesitated before opening it. His wife would tell him anything he wanted to hear and support any decision he made. It felt like a betrayal to hide what was coming.

"Ned," Cat sat up in bed when he walked in. "It's so late," her worry was clear even in the dark, "near the hour of the wolf."

"Then you should be asleep," he kept his voice low, throwing his cloak over the back of a chair.

"I can't sleep well without you," she pulled back the covers on his side.

"There will be more late nights like this," he warned. His numb fingers had difficulty untying the tunic laces but he managed to get it off. When did he get so old and worn out? The most trouble he should have is finding Robb a wife and train him take over as lord. He gave too many allowances to his heir, allowing him to remain unmarried this long. They all still seemed like children, yet all but his youngest had grown to marriageable age. It seemed only a few years since Rickon was born, yet he grew into a gangly youth overnight.  


"Will you tell me what it is?" Cat was not a fragile woman and she could handle the truth if he revealed it. It gave him peace of mind to bear the burden alone. The inevitable fear in her eyes would break his resolve to keep his family in the north. "Wildlings again?"

"I don't want to frighten you," Ned grabbed a clean linen tunic from the wardrobe. He stripped quickly, donned the fresh tunic, and sank down onto the feather mattress. He sat facing away from her, his eyes closed as he cleared his mind. "You might need to go south to your father, pack the essentials and be discrete."

"I won't leave you," she curled her hand around his arm and encouraged him to lay back. Cat tucked him in, pulling the feather coverlet and furs over him. Then she settled beside him, resting her head on his chest as he curled an arm around her. Her warmth soaked into his skin and soothed his tired aching body. Simply holding his wife was something he did not get to do enough lately. This was supposed to be their time together, with no more children to interrupt. Perhaps such idyllic ambitions made him a greedy man.

"Be quick and quiet to prepare what you need," he spoke softly but Cat would not hear a request. "I trust you will know when it is time to go." Their marriage only strengthened because they understood each other. "The soundness of my judgment depends on knowing you and the children will be safe."

"Because you think you might not survive whatever is coming." She heard the unspoken meaning of his words, even when he tried to keep secrets from her. His wife only ever believed one lie, the only other lie he ever told her. Somehow, he always imagined she would realize the truth on her own.

"No matter what happens," Ned stroked the thick braid down her back. "The children will carry on the Stark name and our house will survive." She gripped the front of his tunic as her whole body tensed against his. He turned towards her and embraced her tight, knowing it gave her comfort. If they survived the Others, he would come to bed early and hold Cat every night.

# Robb

As the days grew colder the sun barely shone at all, rising late and setting early. Before supper, it was already dark except the full moon beamed brighter than ever. His lord father was nowhere in the castle nor in the godswood or around the grounds. Robb looked everywhere, combing the dim castle halls and beginning to panic. None of the servants seemed to know where their lord was. Did he go out again, patrolling for wights without telling him and Jon? Father needed to stop treating them like children! They were there when the dead attacked and fought by his side! 

It felt like pure torture to not tell his sisters and mother what they saw that day. Robb could never forget how cold the air was, burning his lungs. The Other stood on a snow bank, never engaging in combat. Not until one of the lads panicked and ran towards the creature, it killed him. That part haunted his dreams, because the boy came back as a weight with just half a head. Jon was the one who thought of burning the dead: at last, that stopped them. When all that remained of the wights were charred corpses, the Other simply left them alone. 

The actions of that creature bewildered Robb but father seemed to recognize something. When they returned to Winterfell that day, father disappeared with Bran for hours. All this secrecy and mystery only frustrated the situation, they all needed to know as much as possible. Too many unbelievable things happened all at once, first the Others and now this! The missive he held his hand might cast the kingdom into chaos. As Robb rounded a corner he near collided with Ser Rodrik Cassel, stepping back just in time.

"Ser Rodrik," he bowed his head apologetically to the bearded man. "Have you seen my father?"

"He said he'd be down in the underground store." The elder's answer made Robb want to slap his own head. That was the one place he hadn't looked! Why in the seven hells did he think to look in the Sept first?!

"Thank you," he strode straight to the stairs that headed to the lower floor. There were some worn ancient tomes kept in storage, most of them too damaged to read. Most of the crumbling books down there contained nothing but superstition and myths. At least, he thought that way before seeing the Other raise the dead. He could still feel the piercing cold of that creature's eyes staring at him. "Father," Robb burst into the lower library to see his father hunched over a table. "Have you heard this news about the queen?!"

"So the truth has come out?" Father braced both hands against the tabletop and hung his head. "Unfortunately yes, I learned recently of the queen's betrayal. I wrote to Robert yet still await a reply. No doubt this humiliation has kept him busy, along with Jon Arryn's recent failing health."

"What will this mean for us?" Robb unfurled his fingers, dropping the missive on the table. "We need every man in the realm to fight the Others and that might not be enough!"

"Patience," strength return to father's voice as he straightened to his full height. "The king will do his duty for the kingdom."

"What if he doesn't believe what you've written?" Robb did not wish to question his father's bond with the king so he kept his tone humble. "If I hadn't seen the dead walking with my own eyes, I wouldn't believe it."

"I know Robert well enough," father nodded once. "He will not dismiss me now even if he does not believe me." He turned away from Robb, staring off into nothingness. "That encounter was a skirmish, a warning from the Others. To show us their power and see if we would flee our homes, tail tucked between legs. We must show strength, I have staked the name of our house on my report to the king."

"Father," Robb hesitated to admit his true feelings. "I consider myself a man now, yet I am more afraid than I ever have been."

"As you should be," father dropped his head again, hiding his face. "We all should be afraid." Robb's hope for comfort plummeted: it felt like he swallowed a stone the size of his fist. For a long while, they stood there, neither speaking nor moving. "Winter has come at last," he murmured, echoing Robb's exact thoughts.

# Margaery

The lush gardens teemed with life, all flowers in bloom, as she and grandmother sipped floral tea. Everything around them burst with greenery and vitality, a perfect sunny day. A warm breeze blew across her cheek like a lover's caress - best she forget how that felt. Even in the shade, while wearing her thinnest robe, the air heated her skin. Margaery could not relax to enjoy the tea, weather, nor her grandmother's company.

"It's a bit sweltry today isn't it?" Grandmother chatted away about the weather, and every other idle type of conversation. "News of the queen's scandal seems to have ridden in on a warm breeze from Kings Landing."

"Yes, grandmother." Margaery fanned herself, lost in thought about the direction her life headed. She would be heading for Kings Landing soon, leaving her home and family likely forever. This garden would remain beautiful even without her admiration and somehow that made her a trifle sad.  


"I can see you find me a very interesting visitor this afternoon." Grandmother's tone was playful but the elder did not like being ignored.

"Oh, grandmother," she folded her fan and placed it on the stone table. "Everything is changing and there's so much pressure. Can I do this on my own?" Grandmother had to stay in Highgarden to oversee a delicate deal brokered with a Martell envoy. The Red Keep would be a lonely place without her mischievous grandmother's cheeky retorts.  


"Loras will be with you," she chuckled. "Take what comfort you can from that." Margaery frowned, wanting comfort not to mock her brother. "You are a beauty in full bloom and said to resemble his late love." Grandmother tapped her fingers against the top of the stone table for emphasis. "The man will trip over his boots to make you queen!"

"The 'man' is a king," Margaery gave a soft nonetheless unladylike snort. "He needn't marry again if he has no wish to. Robert Baratheon already has an heir grown and ready to inherit the throne."

"The king had two more 'heirs' stashed away for contingency's sake," grandmother smiled. "But now they've gone. Gendry Baratheon is a grand prince, isn't he?" Things would be so much simpler if the prince were Margaery's target. If they had any compatibility in the bedchamber, true marital bliss was possible. From all she heard of King Robert, the man seemed determined to avoid a happy marriage. Was it too much to ask that she not be miserable until widowhood?

"If the rumors are to be believed," she heard a great many stories. Prince Gendry was supposed to be handsome yet had several strange habits. Apparently, he possessed an endearing love for smallfolk and visited the common populace often.

"Oh they never are." Grandmother was the most optimistic pessimist Margaery ever knew. "And yet, no matter how handsome or charming, he is merely one prince. Multiple heirs are like standing private armies. One hopes never to use them, but might be thankful for them one day. As queen, you can give our good king the supplementary legitimate heirs he needs. I daresay, anything could happen to young Gendry in the time it takes for your little ones to grow up."

"You do seem eager for me to give the king children," Margaery smirked. She had no doubt of her ability to seduce the man - the marrying part worried her.

"Best to get it out of the way, my dear." Grandmother patted the back of Margaery's hand, yet the consolation felt slightly mocking. "Our family is too rich for him to scorn you."

"Isn't that a comfort?" Margaery retrieved her fan and waved it to cool her face. The Starks say 'winter is coming' but it never touches Highgarden.

"You sound as though you don't want to be queen." Grandmother made a disappointed sound and took a deep gulp from her goblet.

"I want to be queen more than anything." Margaery locked eyes with her grandmother and a serious moment passed between them. "Don't worry - it is only nerves getting to me. When do I leave for Kings Landing?"

"Tomorrow morning," grandmother almost looked reluctant. If she would miss Margaery, the great lady would never admit something so ill mannered. "Are you ready to depart?"

"All my things are packed," she put on her brightest smile, "so I suppose I must be."

"Of all the roses that have grown in Highgarden," grandmother cupped Margaery's cheek. "You are the most beautiful of all. Hide your thorns well behind you petals and you shall succeed."

"I intend to," Margaery shared a smile with her grandmother. In Kings Landing, she would miss this beauty and her family, both necessary sacrifices. Once she is queen, doors will open for her family and give them an elevated position of power. Moreover, if her son should rise to the throne, she would be there to guide him. Grandmother taught her how to play men at their own game - that made her better than anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed a change of pace... so I guess here it is. It looks so pretty! I made a custom CSS skin for it, enable my style and you won't regret it! Anyway, I hope y'all enjoy - if so, a comment and kudos will encourage me. Thanks for reading! ^_^
> 
> FYI: I will update tags as I write to keep the story fresh for readers keeping up chapter-to-chapter. 
> 
> Gendry gets the next POV


	2. Breaking Fasts and Hearts

[](http://www.polyvore.com/breaking_fasts_hearts/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=155819328)

# Gendry

It seemed only a few days ago his entire family sat around this very breakfast table, laughing over a minstrel's tune. Until recently, every aspect of his life had been almost perfect. He was not stupid: his parents hated each other more often than they tolerated one another. Yet there had been balance, a shaky truce that held through the years. When that frayed alliance finally tore, everything fell apart. His life now felt like a nightmare he could not wake from no matter how he struggled! 

"Father, please!" Myrcella's emerald eyes shimmered with tears, her face turning red from the force of holding them back. The king took this opportunity to give her another dressing-down for no good reason. "You know I haven't any idea where mother is!" 

"I am not your father, you inbred whore-spawn!" There was no point in arguing when the king wanted to unleash his rage on someone. He stood, stumbling towards her with his fists clenched, already drunk in the morning. 

"You won't lay a hand on her!" Gendry slammed his palm flat against the table as he launched to his feet. 

"I am still king," father bellowed. "The king can do as he likes!"

"Myrcella, go to your room!" Gendry tried insisting that she not show herself to the king anymore. For some reason, probably to vent his frustration, father kept ordering her to attend meals. She only glared at father while he glowered back at her. "Cella, go right now!"

"You're right," Myrcella wailed, "you are not my father and not much of a king either! Just have Ser Ilyn chop my head off and be done with it!" Then she jumped up from her chair to dash away from the table, face tracked with tears.

"You know she is innocent of anything." Gendry leaned against the table, trembling from the effort to control his temper. The growing frequency of his sister's outbursts worried him. When did she get so strong-willed? Everything changed in such a short time that he couldn't keep up! His anger with father was the only thing that kept him standing. "And with your fondness for whores," he spat, "I don't really understand your insult."

"Boy," the king croaked, "you're walking on thin ice." It already cracked beneath his feet, pulling him under the icy depths of hopelessness.

"You can't do anything to me," he snorted a humorless laugh. "I am the only heir you have." It used to be father's favorite threat, that he would do away with Gendry and let Joff take the throne. They both knew that threat was hollow: father never liked Joffrey much. Maybe on some primal level, father knew the toe-headed lad wasn't his son. Yet before, he always looked kindly on Cella and Tom.

"Plenty of bastards to take your place," the king slurred his growled words. How could he say such a thing with no shame? If father's drinking was a problem before, it only increased tenfold. Gendry didn't understand what he was so upset about. That the king and queen had no love for each other was well-known.

"The nobles will love that," he scoffed, almost pitying the pathetic state of his father. The man brought it all upon himself, with his drinking, whoring, and tyranny. "If you can't stand the sight of Myrcella then don't order her to attend meals with you." Gendry left out the part where he wouldn't tolerate this behavior anymore. Every night he thought about stealing into Cella's room and both of them running away to Casterly Rock. He didn't need to be a prince, or king, he just wanted his family back.

"She looks just like her mother, more every day." The king fell back into his seat, snatching up his goblet to drain it. He found it empty and slammed the metal cup against the table. "A beautiful snake!"

"My mother," Gendry quietly reminded his father, "she is my mother too." He kept his eyes up and refused to be cowed.

"That's right, she's your mother." Father's face turned even redder than usual. "Then you're the son of a brother-fucking whore too. One more word out of you and I swear to the gods-!"

"Your grace!" A messenger barged into the room, saving Gendry from retorting something incredibly stupid. "Apologies, your grace, grave tidings! The hand, Jon Arryn succumbed to his illness in the night." Then it was Gendry's turn to fall into his chair from shock. The old man had always treated him kindly, much more than his siblings. As the crown prince, better treatment is common, but then perhaps the man doubted his siblings' parentage.

"HOW?!" Father couldn't roar any louder without bringing down the Red Keep around them.

"The Maesters say he died in his sleep of a persistent chill, your grace." The messenger seemed saddened by this news, one of many who would miss Jon Arryn. Father reached for the pitcher in front of him to fill his glass but that was also empty.

"MORE WINE!!!" Seemed father could roar louder, at the risk of bursting that vein in his forehead. A servant hurried from the shadows, filling the carafe and father's cup, tasting it before giving it to the king. Father had become paranoid since mother left, certain she had spies working for her within the Red Keep. On that account, and only on that account, father was most certainly right. "Leave us," the king dismissed to the messenger and cupbearer.

"Yes, your grace!" The messenger bowed and left quickly. Father filled his cup, drained it and then filled it again.

"Gods help me..." All the fury faded from father's face, leaving only ragged exhaustion. "We can't have this rage between us, boy. Not now, not after the letter I received from the north." An icy dagger of fearful hope pierced Gendry's heart, this was the news he had been waiting for. "You're of my blood, my seed, and Baratheons are in short supply as of late."

"I knew there was something else troubling you," Gendry struggled not to appear too eager. "Tell me what is wrong," he coaxed, "whatever it is I can help." The only useful tactic for keeping father's temper down was to do everything he could to please him. What the king needed was a distraction and going north would certainly provide some diversion.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," father refilled his cup with a dark chuckle. "I don't even believe it. But I know it's not good, not if Ned says he saw it with his own eyes."

"Lord Stark wrote to you?" Gendry's mind spun with the possibilities of northern problems. "Is it wildlings?" Father slowly shook his head but did not answer. "What should we do, father?"

"We go north," he set his cup down and looked Gendry in the eye.

"And Myrcella?" Gendry held his breath as father's expression tightened.

"I won't give that snake a chance to take back her daughter, she comes with us." The king stood up and Gendry also rose to give at least the impression of respect. "She will be yours to look after, make sure I don't set my eyes on her again." Then he turned and left, taking the pitcher of wine with him.

"Thank you, father." Gendry bowed his head respectfully until father was out of sight. Once alone, his fist smashed against the table, sending his cup spilling to the floor. A servant rushed to clean it but he held up a hand to stop her. 

"No don't," he sighed, "I'll do it myself." 

"Your highness!" The servants always looked scandalized whenever he wanted to clean something with his own hands. 

"I said," he used his firmest princely tone, "I'll do it: myself." 

"Yes, your highness." The servant nodded and meekly scuttled away. Gendry grabbed a napkin from the table and crouched to mop up the mess. He didn't like being taking care of and looked after like a child. That was too much like father, letting everyone else do the dirty work while he drinks and revels.

"What am I doing here?" Gendry stared at the rag in his hand and wondered for the thousandth time: is this his life now? His youth had been too carefree as he avoided his studies and masqueraded as smallfolk for entertainment. Their difficult stations were not 'entertainment', only now did he truly understand that. None is his smallfolk friends knew his real identity, not even Hot Pie.

He stood, placing the cup and soiled rag on the table top and turned away from the scene. On route to his chambers, he wondered if going north was the best option. It would be so easy to don his simple garb and slip out of the castle. The task of getting himself and Cella to Casterly Rock seemed a much more challenging obstacle. No, he couldn't run away: he would stay, and stand, and fight until everything was back to rights.

Inside his chambers, Gendry acted without thinking and donned his smallfolk disguise. He slipped out the usual way and headed to the bakery. A few years back, Hot Pie was almost sold to The Wall until an anonymous donor covered his living expenses. Since then, the young apprentice's skills only improved. Now his meat pies were sought by the highest lords in the land, including the prince.

He smiled, thinking of all the times his friend bragged about the prince's special orders to the keep. Truth was, Gendry just loved those meat pies and got hungry some nights. The smell of flaky crust and bubbling meat floated down the alleyway behind the bakery. Hot Pie stood out back, collecting an early morning supply order.

"Gendry!" Hot Pie greeted him with a grin. "Come to clean me out?"

"Like I could," he slipped into his Flea Bottom accent. "Need to speak with ye."

"Wha' bout?" Hot Pie's brows knitted with concern. Gendry looked around to make sure they were alone.

"We've been friends a long time, yeah?" He waited for his friend to nod in puzzled agreement. "You ever wonder about me?"

"Like," he put a hand under his chubby chin. "Why you's always disappearing and don't have a master?" Hot Pie shrugged and held up his hands. "Yeah, I wondered. So, are you a whore?"

"What the hells?!" Gendry looked around to make sure his outburst didn't draw unwanted attention. He stared at his friend with dumbfounded shock. "A whore?"

"Whelp," Hot Pie's eyes shifted around, "you're so clean and healthy and handsome. Sounds like a whore to me... I'd never judge you for it. Every one of us has to eat after all."

"Honestly," Gendry pinched his eyes shut, "you are not far off." He sighed and returned his focus on his friend. "You know how I have the same name as the prince?"

"So does Lommy's cousin," he chuckled and shook his head. "Don't know why the queen picked such an ugly name."

"I am Prince Gendry Baratheon," Gendry let it out in one breath. "I never told you before because, well: you're the only real friend I have."

"Oh!" Hot Pie burst into sudden laughter, clutching his rounded stomach. "Ho-ho-ho! Ye had me goin' there!"

"Quiet down," he clasped his friend's shoulder and kept his voice low. "I am dead serious: swear to the gods I am."

"Wha'd you mean," Hot Pie blinked, "you're really the prince?!" Gendry nodded, keeping his eyes locked with his friend's to show how serious he was. "Can't believe it," he whispered. "But I know you're tellin' the truth. Bloody hells, Gendry, you're a prince!"

"Yeah, I know it." A 'prince' was the last thing Gendry wanted to be: it was too close to 'prisoner' for his taste. "If I told you who I am before, you'd treat me differently. The reason I am telling this to you is I need a loyal man to join me on a journey north."

"I'm jus' a baker," Hot Pie stared wide-eyed.

"You are my friend, the most valuable title of all." Gendry watched Hot Pie's face screw up with concentration and fear. The man wasn't smart or brave but he was a good sort of fellow all the same. "Besides, I can't live without your meat pies."

"If some other prince come to my doorstep," Hot Pie narrowed his eyes, "and ordered me to be his personal cook. I'd like to spit in his face, to be honest." His expression softened as he stretched out his hand towards Gendry. "Prince or no, I'm yer friend and you're mine."

"Thank you," Gendry grinned and tightly clasped his friend's forearm.

"When do we leave?" Hot Pit still looked reluctant.

"Be ready to go and tell no one," he released his friend's arm. "I will send someone for you." Gendry turned his eyes down, feeling a healthy dose of shame. "They will buy your freedom and from then on you'll have no master." If Hot Pie wanted to leave and make his own life, Gendry would not blame him.

"Just a prince for a friend," Hot Pie grinned. "Think I'll be alright." 

"Then it's settled." Gendry returned the happy expression and felt lighthearted for the first time in weeks. "I should return to the keep before I'm missed." 

"And I've the morning baking to tend," Hot Pie glanced back to his still-full supply cart. They exchanged a nod before Gendry headed into the familiar alley leading towards the keep. He tried to not think about anything and stay focused on the path. His mind pestered him with a single question: what was happening in the north?  


[](http://www.polyvore.com/calm_before_her_fury/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=155812824)

# Jaime

He stood at the window in father's solar, staring out at the Westerlands but not seeing the landscape. The stunning view from the peak of Casterly Rock could not draw his notice from the scene reflected in the glass. Father stood behind his desk, both hands braced on the surface so he could lean forward, enhancing his glare at Cersei.

"I will only ask this once and I demand honesty," father's hand balled into a fist on the desk. "Is it true?" Cersei stood still as a statue, her beautiful face turned away from Jaime. "I want an answer!" They discussed this and decided: she decided, admitting the truth was best. There were too many accusations against them now to deny it to father. From the moment they arrived, it was clear he already judged them guilty.

"Yes," she said just loud enough for both of them to hear, "it is true - all of it." 

"Be specific." Father did not flinch or blink, only stared at his daughter with no expression. Jaime couldn't watch any longer and turned his eyes down to the floor. Part of father's punishment since they arrived like beggars at his door: he never once acknowledged Jaime. Cersei was made to speak for them both while he cowered in the corner.

"Jaime," her voice faltered, "fathered my three youngest children." Four heavy footfalls and a loud slap sounded in rapid succession. Jaime whirled around to see Cersei holding her face, her eyes already trained on him. She did not want his interference and like a coward he stood still and did nothing. Just like when Robert slapped and humiliated her.

"You will both deny it and carry this disgrace to your graves." Father finally acknowledge Jaime, his gaze sharp with disgusted disappointment. "This depravity will not carry on any longer," he turned back to Cersei. "I forbid it!" 

"Yes father," she bowed her head dutifully and backed away.

"Dismissed," he spat the word and turned his back on them. Jaime had to rush across the room to keep up with Cersei's flight. She waited for him to open the door and hurried through the archway and down the hall. In a few long strides he caught up with her and glanced over to see her reddened cheek.

"Cersei, go see the Maester for an ointment." He lifted a hand to graze the backs of his fingers under the injury but she jerked away. "It pains me to see you hurt." She stopped her stride and began to laugh, a hollow dark sound.

"You," her eyes stared straight ahead, "should be accustomed to witnessing my suffering." The scorn in her voice was usually reserved for negligent servants. "Father strikes no harder than Robert did. As that fool's queen, even in my subjection, I had some power to wield. Now I am a mockery, hated by my own father and children." She finally looked at him as if seeing right through him. "Will even you hate me in the end?"

"Never," he tried to reach for her hand but she continued forward as if he weren't there. "Cersei, wait." Jaime struggled to tamp down his annoyance, lest he find himself the object of her true rage. He followed her into her chamber but stopped in the open doorway. She stood in the middle of the room staring out the window, unmoving and almost serene. What would he give to know her mind at this moment, or any moment? Cersei mastered the art of hiding her emotions long ago, even from him. 

The serenity shattered when she snatched a wine goblet from the table and hurled it at the window. It missed the glass to bounce fruitlessly off the stone and that only enraged her further. She stormed across the room, grabbed the curtain hanging off her bed, and tore it from the bedpost. Jaime managed to react, closing the door behind him to hide the scene. He tried to go to her but she rushed past in a mad frenzy, not even seeing him him.

"I can't bare this anymore!" She was not addressing him, just raging around, spilling boxes and their contents. "Forever in history, I will be remembered as a black stain on the Lannister name." Cersei's hands furiously pulled and yanked on every ornament her eyes landed on. "The shame I brought on our house and to father is unforgivable!" Jaime moved behind her and grabbed her around the waist to stop her rampage.

"There is no shame in love," he held her tightly, murmuring into her ear. She jerked and shivered, squeezing his arms tightly. Her breaths heaved from her chest as she held back the tears trying escape: Cersei hated to cry.

"Leave me," she choked on a sob as the first drop spilled down her injured cheek. "I don't want you to see me like this."

"I've seen you birth four children," he buried his face in her hair to protect her pride. "I can handle a few tears."

"Myrcella is in that brute's hands!" She struggled but Jaime held onto her, not using half his strength. It did not matter if she truly wanted him to release her or was too proud to ask him to stay. Because he never knew what she really wanted so he just did as he wished. "Our daughter," she wept, "my sweet girl." The tears came with the truth, as it often does. "How could I leave her there to save myself?!" In her need to save her daughter, Jaime recognized her need to save her younger self.

"The boys," he reminded her, "you, and I were in real danger. Robert is a drunken bellowing bully but he isn't a monster." Robert is not a forgiving man but he would rather ransom Myrcella than keep a young girl with no value. Even if father would not pay, Jaime had enough of his own money from winning tournaments. Cersei seemed calm at last so he loosened his hold and turned her to face him. "I will get her back, don't lose faith in me now."

"I have no choice," she murmured, "but to love my children." From her glassy eyes spilled another tear, the only one she did not attempt to stop.

"My love," he reached out to stroke the tear from her face.

"Don't," she slapped his hand away. "Don't touch me - don't look at me - I don't love you anymore." Cersei whirled around to retrieve the goblet she tossed earlier. "I have no heart left to love with," she walked to the table to fill the goblet. "Find someone who hasn't turned to stone and love them instead." In one shot, she drained the glass, gulping the amber liquid without breath.

"Be serious," he attempted a lighthearted tone but his voice fell flat. "What are you saying?" The one thing he could always count on was her jealousy, Cersei would never give him leave to love another. Jaime stood there, stunned and blinking at her rigid form. 

"Get out," she still refused to face him, refilling her goblet. "Leave this room and don't come back here because I won't see you." Cersei drained the second cup just like the first, panting as she slammed the empty goblet on the table. "Or I will tell father you won't leave me be and ask him to send me away. You know he will, you are his heir - first and foremost." Dumbstruck, Jaime stood there staring at her back without a shred of hope. He knew her well enough to know when he mind was made up. How could she just 'unlove' him? 

Only once before had she banished him from her sight, the day before her wedding. She later told him if she saw him, she would have begged him to abduct her. It was for the best because he would have been all too willing to kidnap her. Back then, they were too young to survive in the world alone. Still, sometimes he wondered if he could have carved out a simpler life for them. Somewhere far away, he could have passed Cersei off as his wife and sold his services to some wealthy nobleman. Could he have made her happy?

Jaime did not know how long they stood there before he complied with her command and left. The halls stretched on forever until he found himself standing before his chamber. It took all his strength just to open the door and close it behind himself. There were precious few times in his life when he cried. The day mother died, the night Cersei married, and when each of her children was born. Even Gendry, the dark-haired squirming infant was her son so Jaime loved the boy. Today the tears that marked his face were not those of joy or sorrow but an unfamiliar emotion, defeat.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course I had to make Hot Pie best friends with Prince Gendry! Things are so damn tense in the Baratheon and Lannister households. Myrcella's POV is up next.


	3. The Royal Bastards

[](http://www.polyvore.com/royal_bastards/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=156275845)

# Myrcella

"Your Grace," the spider's quiet murmur managed to echo throughout the throne room. The entire court turned out to witness her public shaming. Humiliation burned her face as she knelt on the cold stone floor. Rage, not fear, had her body trembling from head to toe. "I do believe the poor girl knows nothing of these captured spies." That is exactly what she had been saying all along!

"I swear it," she sobbed, ashamed to not be in control of her emotions. Why was she being subjected to the mockery of the court? Gendry promised the king would leave her be!

"Get this pointless girl out of my sight," the king glared at Myrcella from his throne. "I tire of her mewling!" He waved his cup-bearer over to refill his goblet.

"Drunken boar!" She scrambled ungracefully to her feet, drawing titters from the crowd. "You look like a pig wearing a crown!" More laughs came from those gathered in the court, muffled by awkwardly forced coughs. Before she could hurl any more insults, the hound had her by her arm.

"The princess doesn't know when to shut up," he growled under his breath. The hound dragged her out of the throne room and only released her in the outer hall.

"I am not a princess," she glared straight into his eyes until he looked away. Why should she fear the hound? The fierce man protected her for as long as she could remember. Even if he did hurt her, who would care? If the king ordered any of his men to kill her, every one of them would obey. "You don't have to escort me, I know the way." Myrcella twirled around and dashed all the way to her chamber. Let them call her unladylike... she was no longer a lady.

In her room, she roughly tore her hair loose and kicked her shoes off. Madness consumed her, driving her to throw these tantrums, all the while knowing she might die for her antics. Part of her wanted it, to be a martyr, an innocent he sentenced to death. That would show everyone what the king really is! A bully, villain, and wretched blackguard... that's what he was! Robert Baratheon would not be king without her family! How could she ever have loved him and called him father? Uncle Jaime was a far better man!

Jaime was not her uncle but her father instead. That thought made her head swim so she stumbled to sit on her bed. Oh, how she wished it was not true! If only anyone else besides Maester Pycelle caught them together. That man was the most loyal to her mother, how could he betray her? Yet, the queen's betrayal to that fat pig of a king trumped the old holy man's disloyalty by far. Pycelle likely feared for his life if the truth came out, and come it did. The truth surged like a tidal wave that crashed over her and destroyed everything.

"Cella?" Gendry came in without knocking, which she told him for years now to stop doing. That sort of behavior wasn't proper now that they were older. Propriety really doesn't matter anymore, so she skipped the habit of chastising him.

"Why did you come?" She leaned back against the cushioned headboard and let her gaze land on the floor.

"I was worried about you." Her brother walked around the bed, pulling off his jacket to drop it on the floor. Then his boots followed, haphazardly kicked under her bed. Everywhere Gendry went, a mess was sure to follow. "You're my dearest sister," he sat down at the other end of the bed. He always said that silly jape because she was his only sister. A short time ago, his jests would make her squeal with laughter until her sides hurt. No pain would ever feel that good again.

"Not really," she let her bare foot dangle off the edge and poked the rug with her big toe. "I am... a freak." Her voice broke and trembling words tumbled out without her permission. "How could my life change so completely?! How could mother and uncle Jaime do this?!" When would she wake from this nightmare?

"You could have feigned illness," he insisted, "the king would forget he summoned you."

"I cannot back down," she seethed. "I won't be treated like a criminal! I have not done anything wrong!"

"I know that," his expression softened with sympathy.

"You are the only one," she hugged herself and looked away.

"My beloved sister," he leaned forward to take hold of her hand. "Myrcella, I will never let anyone harm you: not even the king." Yet she already suffered more harm than her mind could tolerate without breaking! Hated by the man she called father, branded a traitor's daughter, and she lost most of her family. Even being allowed to remain in her room, surrounded by girlish frippery, felt like a twisted reminder of all she lost.

"I am so afraid all of the time because father," she choked on the word. "The king hates me, he wants to kill me I can see it in his eyes." Too often, Myrcella wished he would get it over with, and then this nightmare would end. This life was more than she could bear, perhaps she would find peace in the afterlife.

"It's not you that he wants dead." Gendry turned his head to gaze out the window, not really looking at anything.

"And you," she hesitated to ask, "do you wish our mother dead?"

"Never," he looked back, eyes wide with surprise. "She might have committed infidelity but she loved us as much as a mother can love her children."

"Even Joff," Myrcella laughed despite her sadness. 

"I have to say, I don't miss his whining." His grin slipped and his expression turned serious. "He and Tom are probably suffering the same fears as you, but we must all be strong. When I am king I will pardon mother and uncle Jaime and we can be together as a family again."

"That will be such a long time from now." Her greatest fear forever lingered in the back of her mind. "And I'll never be marriageable," she whispered.

"You don't know what the future holds," he argued. "Now you can marry for love instead of alliances." Myrcella could not believe anyone would ever love her, the inbred freak.

"Father has been pressuring you again," she turned the tables, "to take a wife." She took back her hand and started running her fingers through her hair to distract herself.

"I will," he shrugged, "as soon as I find a suitable match." Gendry pretended the matter did not worry him, yet Myrcella knew him better than to believe that.

"Margaery Tyrell," she hinted, "is beautiful and clever." Gendry grimaced and shook his head.

"I think father has his sights on her already." Her brother did not sound too disappointed about that. She often wondered if any girl or woman could ever live up to his impossible standard. Especially since that standard was the kingdom's best kept secret. Every lady of marriageable age tried to catch his eye and he saw through them all.

"Poor girl," she commiserated. Myrcella could see something else was troubling Gendry, definitely not the task of finding a wife. "What is the matter?"

"Cella," his brow furrowed, "soon we are going north: to Winterfell." Myrcella nodded, already having heard the excitement around the Red Keep. The king was so afraid of Lannister attacks he planned to take an entire army north. "I will protect you, so don't stray from my side for an instant."

"I won't," she agreed immediately, hoping it did not reveal how truly fearful she was. Every night, she dreamed that the Gold Cloaks stormed into her chamber to drag her out of bed. She didn't wake up until Ser Ilyn Payne's sword sliced clean through her neck. "Do you remember when I was scared of a bad summer storm?"

"Tommen and I used to sleep together with you in here," he grinned down at the mattress, "him in the middle." Gendry turned his grinning face back up at her. "The bed seemed bigger back then."

"Joff called us cowards," she basked in the nostalgia. "I even miss his japes and tricks. At least he never lied when a dress did not flatter me." Somehow, her laughter turned to tears in an instant, pouring down her face. "Gods help me, I even miss Joffrey!"

"Please don't cry," he scooted closer and gathered her in his arms. She clutch the front of his tunic and buried her face against the soft fabric. "I know it's bad, but we still have each other."

"Will you stay with me tonight?" She felt him tighten up with reluctance. "Tongues are already wagging," she pointed out. "What more can they say?"

"I'll stay," he assured her, petting her hair. "I'll stay."

"Mother told me once that you almost died after you were born." Myrcella recalled the last time someone held her as she cried. "She never prayed for you to survive because she knew you'd become the strongest of us all." She pulled back to meet her brother's worried gaze. "Forgive me, I thought you would never be serious enough, always playing with armor. Now I see what she saw in you... that you'll be a great king."

"I'd settle for being a good king," he sighed even as his lips curled into a smile. "Unremarkable would be alright," he joked. "As long as I don't go mad, get killed, die heirless, or some other tragedy: that'd be just fine with me."

"You could bring progress to the realm," she insisted, "strengthen our ties with other nations, and lead us into a century of peace."

"Even when mother isn't here," he shook his head, "I still hear her voice."

"Am I like her?" Myrcella did not know if the comparison was true or even kind. Mother's ability to hide so many secrets was both impressive and terrifying.

"In the best ways," he assured her. "I'll never allow you to be forced to marry. Choose a man that you love and I will give you both my blessing." Gendry wiped the lingering wetness from her cheeks. "Hells, when I'm king I'll just make a lord out of whatever man you like."

"That's quite a dowry," she smiled, "and more than a bit dishonorable."

"Then I shall be an honorless king," he grinned, "but more or less good."

"I'm so reassured," she spoke as if jesting but meant the words for truth. Gendry did comfort her, it was one of his many gifts. Part of her felt jealous of him and she secretly wished mother left her because she was truly a Baratheon. The golden curls she once considered her favorite feature now sat on her head as a crown of shame. Despite all of her misfortune, she still had a brother who loved her and would continue to protect her. These outbursts had to stop for his sake, if only she could control them.

[](http://www.polyvore.com/in_crypt/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=156277027)

# Joffrey

The inky black entryway of the crypt beckoned him, pulling him towards the blinding dim. The gates of the seven hells are likely not as dark as the cavern before him. Rumors say the winding crypt goes on without end and some who go too deep never come back. Joffrey wasn't afraid, but he still wondered if there might be something better to do.

"Are you going in?" A soft voice behind him made Joffrey jump. He whirled about-face to see a young fair-complexioned woman in a simple dress. Her wide blank eyes blinked at him before she dropped into a deplorable curtsy. "I beg your pardon, I didn't mean to frighten you."

"You didn't 'frighten' me," he snapped. "I was just a bit startled, that's all."

"Have it your way," she pursed her lips. "Are you going inside the crypt?"

"I might be curious," he shrugged, "there's nothing else interesting around here." Joffrey already explored the entire structure of Casterly Rock. From top to bottom, the place was full of relics belonging to his ancestors. Being a Lannister did not fill him with the pride it once did.

"Oh believe me, it is interesting down there." Her disconcertingly milky colorless eyes opened wide with excitement. "My mother isn't in there but sometimes I pretend she is and that I am a Lannister in truth. We could go in together, it's dark and winding but I know the way."

"The way where?" He peered into the darkness and wondered how anyone could navigate down there.

"You'll see if you follow." She paused at the door to look back over her shoulder. "Or you can stay up here if it is more fun."

"Fine," he followed her into the crypt. The girl's white blonde hair glowed in the dark between hanging lanterns. His eyes adjusted to the dim, but he could not recognize any differences between the maze of tunnels. Every corner they turned looked the same as the last. They descended at least half a dozen staircases before finding the first burial chamber.

"You must be Prince Joffrey," her wispy voice echoed off the rock walls. "I am Joy Hill, Gerion Lannister's natural born daughter."

"I'm not a prince anymore," he seethed, "you stupid cow."

"Hmm," she made a high-pitched dismissive sound that irked him. "You certainly do not possess the manners of a prince." She spoke to him with such disrespect, as no one would dare to do if he were still royalty.

"I could kill you right now if I wanted," he threatened.

"Do it," she sighed, "I have nothing to live for." Joffrey grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her against the rock wall.

"Did you lose your place in line for the throne of this entire kingdom?" Though he was right in her face she had no reaction at all. "No?! Then shut up about your petty problems."

"Petty?" She blinked before shoving him off - he let her go because he didn't care. "I suppose they would seem that way to someone so recently royalty. Nevertheless, to me, my problems are far from petty. You've only just become a bastard, but I've lived as one my whole life. Even though I've had to bow and scrape in front of my entire highborn family, I still get sold off like chattel. You will never know how that feels..."

"That's the purpose of women," he scoffed, "and the way things ought to be."

"Easy for you to say," she countered snidely. Then the girl suddenly spun around, her cape flying behind her. She stared at him with the most peculiar predatory gaze. "I have thought of a way to break my engagement." Why was she looking at him like that?! "Have you ever bedded a woman?" She slowly walked towards him, never blinking.

"What sort of question is that?!" Joffrey stepped back until his heel hit the staircase they just descended.

"I take it you haven't." She had the audacity to look disappointed. "No worry, I understand how it's done. Would you do me the kindness of giving me a child so I do not have to marry?" Joffrey stared at her, mouth agape with shock. "We are both unfortunate bastards so you won't have to take responsibility. I only need your seed," she expounded seriously.

"This is lunacy," he gritted between his clenched teeth, "and I won't stand here and listen to it anymore." Joffrey had every intention of storming up those steps and never coming down here again.

"Then I must point out... you don't know the way back." Her reminder shattered his anger and replaced it with panic. "I'll do anything you want!" She hurried to his side and clasped her hands under her chin. "You might not be a prince anymore, but I can serve you as if you were my king. Your Grace," those two words sent a pleasant shiver through him, "let me please you."

"Get on your knees," he ordered. To his surprise, she immediately obeyed, falling to the ground gracelessly.

"Is this alright, your grace?" Her head bowed demurely to stare at his feet.

"Look up at me," he wrenched her chin up. Her unflinching eyes shone in the low firelight as his cruel fingertips reddened her skin. "Kiss my boot." Joffrey released her face and waited with growing anticipation while she looked down to his boots. When she dipped her head to press her lips to the dirty leather, a thrill ran up his leg and rushed to his cock. Why shouldn't he have her? It was high-time he had a woman and she appeared clean and healthy.

He stooped, grasped her upper arms to jerk her up, and shoved her against the nearest sarcophagus. Those glazed eyes focused on him as a dreamy smile spread across her lips. She hopped onto the coffin, gathering her skirts aside to untie her smallclothes and pulled the thin garment out of the way. Desire clouded his mind, defeating any possible reason he shouldn't fuck this simple-minded girl.

"My prince?" Her breathy voice sent another wave of lust coursing through him.

"Be still," he commanded and it pleased him when she obeyed - at last holding her tongue. Who cared what he did now? This is just the type of thing a bastard does. Joffrey pulled at the ties of his breeches to free his cock, harder than it had ever been. His breath raced as he grasped her hips and yanked her closer to the edge of the stone coffin. He stabbed in vain a few times, sliding around before she grabbed his cock and guided it to the wettest spot.

"There..." She released a low hum and leaned back to grip the intricate molding of the sarcophagus. Impatient, he plunged inside her and she cried out, yet he cared nothing for her pain or pleasure. Joffrey nearly passed out from the intensity of the blood rushing hot under his skin. He gazed at her face, twisted with discomfort, as he pushed himself further into her.

"Your Grace," she whined and tilted her hips, "I beg you to go deeper and fill me with your seed." Her breathy whimpering sent a shock through his pulsing cock, nearly bringing him to completion.

"Shut up," he grunted, leaning forward to shove her flat onto the stone lid, and covered her mouth. She wrapped her pale legs around his hips and pulled him towards her. He groaned from the rush of pleasure as her womanhood fully enveloped his cock. Her chest heaved with heavy breath so he uncovered her mouth to grasp both of her wrists. He jerked on her arms, pulling her closer to bury himself deeper into her tight heat. She gasped and arched against the coffin as he withdrew a bit and drove hard into her.

Her legs tightened around his waist, encouraging his erratic pumping in and out. He seized her thighs, digging his fingertips into the soft flesh and driving as hard into her as his trembling legs would allow. The lid of the coffin started to slide away from the force of his thrusting, but he did not cease. Every time he withdrew she twisted against him, and with each stroke his pleasure mounted. 

"Your Grace," she gasped as her body shuddered and shivered. "Please..." Her ragged breath grew louder, turning to wheezing moans. He increased his pace until he almost fainted - a bright light flashed across his eyes. His seed exploded into her, gushing with a ferocity he never before experienced. It seemed to go on forever and he was only dimly aware of her echoing cries. Finally finished, he slumped down on top of her, panting for breath and heart pounding.

The girl curled her arms around his ribs and loosely embraced him. His racing pulse evened as his breathing steadied and his mind unfortunately cleared as well. It unsettled him when he felt her hand petting his hair so he lifted up to look at her. She raised her eyes - glazed with tears in an almost beautiful way. He jolted away to shove his still-hard cock into his breeches and laced them up.

"I hope the stain washes out," she mused dreamily as she fixed her clothing. "I rather like this dress."

"I want," he panted, "to get out of here - right now."

"Of course, my prince." The girl hopped down from the sarcophagus as though she had not a care in the world and headed up the nearby stairs. Joffrey followed her through the maze until a bright light shone at the end of the cavern. He pushed past her and nearly sprinted out of the crypt. Daylight flooded his eyes, but somehow the irritation felt good. After he became accustomed to the blinding brightness he noticed the girl standing beside him.

"I come here often," she beamed at him and then turned to walk away. Joffrey watched the small red stain on the back of her dress with dismayed gratification. He deflowered his cousin in the family crypt and vanquished the day's dullness. What was her name again? Ah, that's right, Joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Casterly Rock: Come for the multi-generational blood-thirsty quest for power, stay for the incest.
> 
> Well, that got explicit quickly. And it's a Joff chapter too... don't see that everyday. I'm satisfied with it and I like how Joy's character is turning out. Clearly Joff/Joy will be a *super healthy* relationship. I'd like to add more Lannisters as I keep going, as they are the most interesting family in Westeros.
> 
> So... thoughts...?


	4. For A Sister's Love

[](http://www.polyvore.com/for_sisters_love/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=166814625)

# Margaery

She nodded her thanks, with all of the serenity of a soft breeze carrying a floral scent, to the guard who escorted her back to her chamber. Her brother followed close behind as she glided into her room, once inside Margaery clenched her teeth as she loosened the ties of her bodice. Then she caught sight of herself in her looking glass, seeing the fury in her expression. The king turned her into this angry creature, and they were not even married yet! 

"He rejected my invitation again," she muttered to Loras, ignoring his soft chuckle. She stepped closer to the mirror and reflected on her predicament. Even with her most critical eye, everything about her appearance was perfect. In her few brief interactions with the king, she stroked his ego and he seemed to enjoy her submissive admiration. Apparently, the king liked his wifeless state and even Margaery's youth and beauty would not tempt him back into married life. "Would it kill the man to take tea instead of wine with one meal?"

"It might," her brother quipped, "the king's pickled himself by now." Loras spread himself out on a chaise lounge behind her. Margaery sneered at his reflection, annoyed by his aloof attitude when everything was falling apart around them. "There's Dornish red in his veins instead of blood."

"You have a long way to go," she feigned coolness while adjusting a stray hair, "before getting a laugh out of me, Loras."

"That's only because you've been spoiled by grandmother," his exaggerated sigh of resignation touched on Margaery's last nerve. "No one is wittier than her."

"Will you listen?!" She whirled around to face her incompetent brother. "I am failing in my duty to our house and you make jokes!" 

"I am trying to keep your spirits up," he sat up to pout at her.

"The man keeps company with ten whores at once," she threw her hands up in utter defeat. "How can I possibly compete with that?"

"Heirs, obviously." Loras picked up her small hand harp and idly plucked at the untuned strings. "Kings can never get enough," he sang along with his rhythmless song.

"One must be a wife to have legitimate heirs," she snapped, losing her facade of calm. "This 'king' is the least honorable man I have ever laid eyes on. If I seduce him and conceive his child there is no guarantee he won't deny me. On the other hand, he could just have me killed!"

"Don't be so dramatic," he set aside the harp and looked around for something more interesting.

"The king loves to talk of nothing else but killing his first wife." At least, in the few fleeting moments spent graced with the man's presence. Once or twice, he mentioned the prospect of House Tyrell funding the royal coffers - with no offer of any favor in return.

"She cuckolded him with her own brother," and it was obvious how the circumstance amused her brother. "How would you like it if your kingly husband fucked me?"

"I will cuckold him with someone at some point." It was inescapable, yet she would have two be careful because traitors are everywhere in the Red Keep - the king said so himself. "Besides, he's nowhere near your level," she turned back to the mirror to hide how worried she truly felt. "Tyrells don't condescend."

"He's not on your level either," her brother's foolish ignorance chilled her to the core. This is why she needed grandmother, not some puerile youth pretending to be a knight.

"Wrong," she locked eyes with her own reflection, "a king is higher than any woman's level, no matter how beautiful she is." This lesson was the hardest she ever learned and it was important for her to remember at all times. "Beauty fades, it is unavoidable, and then a woman only has her wits. Give me an example where a woman used only her wits to best a king and I will accept your point."

"You win," he conceded without any sarcasm.

"I always do," she smiled at her reflection. "Because I have wits and beauty, which makes me higher than every man but the king. If, I become queen." Margaery's determination sank under the weight of her failure to secure an engagement. "Perhaps grandmother is wrong to assume King Robert will want another wife. He seems content to stay unattached while more frequently mentions his son needs to marry."

"You think he means to betroth you to his son?" Loras asked that very question she had been asking herself since she arrived in Kings Landing.

"I don't know what he wants," she grumbled, "I barely see the man."

"I don't understand why you don't attach yourself to the prince." He rose from his seat to stand next to her decide the mirror. "He seems a nice enough fellow and will be king someday."

"A lot can happen between today and 'someday'," her voice sounded weak so she straightened her spine and focused on the source of her strength - raw determination. "I want to be the queen now." A thoughtful expression crossed her brother's face as she turned towards him.

"We should go north with him," he suggested. "If you truly resemble his lost love it might help your cause." Loras waved a hand over her gown and shook his head. "A change of wardrobe never hurts."

"Dressed not for the summer," she studied her reflection more critically.

"But in winter colors," Loras finished her thought, moving to her side and looking her over - head to toe. "I see you in soft gray, tinted blue to bring out your eyes." What he described would suit her and would require only minimal adjustment to her wardrobe. "Perhaps let your hair loose to fall over the side of your face. In profile, your figure might jog a happy memory of his lost love."

"Oh brother, you are clever at times." She turned to face him, grasping both of his forearms. "Help me find whatever you can about how Lady Lyanna dressed and behaved. What did she eat and drink - learn everything no matter the cost. This has to work before he dies from drinking to excess."

"I can charm a few older women who might remember Lady Stark." Finally, her brother was taking this matter seriously! Still, he managed to have that silly carefree grin on his face. "Anything for you, dear sister."

"Meanwhile, I will secure our position in the king's convoy." She held her brother's eyes so he could see the seriousness of the situation. "Learn whatever you can quick, we leave for north in three days." Loras nodded, his expression more appropriately somber, and turns to leave her room. The instant he was outside the door, Margaery went to her wardrobe and pulled the doors open. 

Throughout her entire adulthood, others compared her to a rose - white, pure, and beautiful. For the sake of her family, she had to freeze her petals, turn cold and blue. Live her life as the ghost of a woman long dead yet still kept alive in memory. The king wanted his long lost love returned to him and she wanted to be queen. If all went well, they would both get what they wanted.

[](http://www.polyvore.com/bloody_royals/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=166818157)

# Sandor

He stood with his back against a tall pillar - pretending not to overhear the king and prince arguing. Servants bustled around the keep halls, getting things ready for the king's departure. In a move unusually clever for this particular king, their party would be escorted north by a proper army. Everyone else was tripping over themselves to get closer and hear something to gossip about later. One serving girl tiptoed too close but all Sandor had to do was give her a harsh look to send her running.

"You think the servants keep their traps shut, boy?!" The king roared loud enough, making sure everyone heard him. "The whole castle knows you've been spending your nights in that little whore's room."

"How can you believe something so foul?" The prince struggled to keep his voice down but he had that buggering Baratheon temper. "Myrcella is my sister!" No doubt, the lad was the king's get - they were both stubborn fucking fools. Sandor turned to face them, afraid he would have to break up the fight if it came to blows.

"Didn't stop your uncle!" The king was red in the face - reminded Sandor of a bearded tomato. Admittedly, he might be still a little drunk from last night's keg of Dornish red. "What are the people supposed to think of my heir? You'll destroy your reign before you've started!"

"I stayed to comfort her after another of your childish public accusations," now the prince was turning red in the face. Sandor shifted uncomfortably, maintaining an aloof expression. It had been difficult to watch the little princess crying on her knees in the throne room. The girl did nothing wrong but the king made a spectacle of her anyway. Not that it was a dog's place to judge a king.

"I know that snake can't resist sending her daughter a message," the king seethed. "I need to get rid of the traitors all around us!"

"Then have her watched!" The prince raked his hand through his short untidy hair. "Don't vent your frustration on an innocent girl: control your temper!" Prince Gendry seemed to recognize the fucking hypocrisy of his shouted words and lowered his voice. "Anyone who spreads vile rumors doesn't know me at all, let them talk. Cella is precious to me and I intend to see her well-married one day, I won't tolerate any filthy rumors about her." 

"I don't care what they say about that girl," the words gritted between the King's clenched teeth. "I care what they say about you!"

"You told me she was mine to care for," defeat crept into the prince's voice, "was that a lie?" The two men stared at each other for a moment before Prince Gendry lowered his eyes.

"Do as you see fit," the king threw his arm up in dismissal as he stormed away. "More fucking wine!" Sandor stood still as a statue until Robert Baratheon passed and then sneered at the retreating king - chased by his cupbearer. When he turned back, Prince Gendry had gone still as a statue, staring straight forward after his father. 

"Gods help me," the prince murmured so quiet Sandor just scarcely heard. "Help me, please help me." Yeah, that'll fucking help a lot. Then the lad woke from his daze and ambled gloomily to stand beside Sandor. "I can always count on your honesty. Is it true, do the servants say I've seduced my own sister?"

"They say that and worse - gossiping fools." He glared around at the servants bustling in the hall. "Ignore it, that's the price you highborn pay for sitting on cushions your whole lives."

"At least you're straightforward," the prince sighed - clearly beaten by his father's pigheadedness.

"I don't believe it," he added, for whatever his opinion was worth. "She's a proper lady, no matter who whelped her." Neither the kingslayer's arrogance nor the she-lion's unfeelingness tainted the girl. The little princess might've been too naive for her position once, but her mother's disgrace took care of that.

"Thank you, Clegane." The prince straightened up and smoothed a hand over his tunic, making a show of wearing Baratheon colors. Prince Gendry walked ahead and Sandor fell in step behind him. "I was surprised when my father kept you on as my shield."

"I swore myself to him and he charged me with protecting you." He kept pace with the prince, keeping his eyes trained forward. "That's what I mean to do." Lord Lannister might've owned him once but Sandor was the king's dog now.

"I won't forget the respect you've shown my sister," the prince kept his voice down as a gaggle of court ladies walked by. They eyed up the prince like a prized slab of meat as they passed, tittering, and whispering amongst themselves. "Did you know about my mother and uncle?"

"It's not my place," he craned his neck back to watch the group of women get further away.

"I won't hold it against you if you knew," the prince kept his voice down, forcing a lighthearted tone. "I think many people might've suspected. I am the fool who didn't see what was under my own nose. In that way, I understand father's anger."

"Had my suspicions," he could admit that much. "Not one for gossip myself, as it's none of my bloody business."

"You play the game better than I do," the prince laughed a sad wispy sound. "All these years I must have seemed little more than a spoiled child to you." Sandor neither agreed nor disagreed with that statement, nor did he understand the relevance. "I will be counting on you during our journey north, to keep an eye on my sister. There are some who would see her fallen position as a chance to dishonor her."

"Any buggering scoundrel who tries will see the edge of my blade." Though, the little princess was turning from a cub into a lioness. Any man would be fairly fucking stupid to cross her, thinking her to be weak and vulnerable. He saw the strength growing inside her and the anger building up beneath it.

"Good man, Clegane." The prince was always praising him for doing his bloody job. "We'll be off soon, are you ready to go north?"

"Don't have many things to pack." As long as a man had his sword and his horse, what else would he need? Wine was widely available everywhere in the seven kingdoms. As they approached the prince's chambers, the younger man jerked his head towards the inside of the room as he opened the door. Sandor followed Prince Gendry inside and closed the door behind them. 

"Did you discover what's become of my letters?" The prince untied his cloak and unwound it from his shoulders to throw it over the back of a chair. 

"The message boy was taking them straight to the king," he confirmed. Sander suspected the serving boy from the get go but the prince wanted to give the lad a chance. It was best the prince learned soon that nobody in the Red Keep was fit to be trusted. 

"I hope you didn't scare him too much," the prince chastised with a grin on his face, pulling off his boots and tossing them aside.

"Didn't have too," He kept a straight face but only thanks to years of practice. "Little brat confessed everything when he saw me walking towards him." By the look on the boy's face, he shit in his breaches when he saw the hound coming for him. 

"You'll be haunting that boy's sleep for days," the prince chuckled but then turned somber again. "I expected sending the message out in the open would be best: father would hate secrecy even more." The king hated being mocked by his own subjects and feared one of them might see this as a good opportunity to have him replaced.

"I did find a handmaiden," he revealed, "who can get a message to your mother." Sandor didn't like being caught up in all of this politics, that wasn't his duty. Somehow, it just didn't sit right, seeing that broken look on his charge's face. He protected the lad since he was an infant, probably liked him better than any other person. Besides, though they were disobeying the king, it wasn't outright treason. "Even if the note is discovered, the words are the same."

"I only want to inform mother of Cella's wellbeing," Prince Gendry sighed loudly. "He can't even allow that much! Was he always such an unfeeling man?" Sandor stared straight ahead, ignoring the question. "I know, you won't talk about him like that, I respect it." 

"Respect has nothing to do with it," he kept his tone even. "If a man wants to keep his head on his shoulders, he won't talk about his king." Sandor hoped the boy was smart enough to understand this warning - princes especially can present a danger to a king. 

"So did I tell you about the bear the hunter caught?" The prince changed the subject and Sandor responded only with a shake of his head. "Oh, you'll love this: it was a massive beast!" Prince Gendry rose from his chair, and raising both hands over his head like claws. "Ten feet tall with paws the size of serving plates and with claws like hooked daggers. It took twenty arrows to take it down!"

"Then the village is safe from more attacks," he knew the prince's real motive for having that bear hunted. 

"I really wanted a new fur cloak to wear in the north." Prince Gendry turned his back to fill a goblet with white wine. "It'll be damned cold up there and I want to stay warm." He turned around to face Sandor, sitting on the edge of the table. "But whatever servant told the cloak-maker my size exaggerated greatly. Wearing it, I look like a child who's gotten into his father's wardrobe. I puzzled over who would be big enough to wear that cape with his pride intact."

"You can have it resized," it made him uncomfortable when the prince gave him gifts. "I can call the tailor here to measure you properly."

"Did I mention it was a black bear?" The prince knew Sandor's preference for wearing dark colors and would never give up - the boy was stubborn like all Baratheons.

"I'll take it off your hands," he accepted the unavoidable gift, "if you want to be rid of it."

"That's a relief," the prince smiled up at him, looking more like his old carefree self. "It'd be a shame to let a beautiful fur go to waste." Sandor only nodded before giving an awkward bow, turning to take his post outside the door. "Thank you, Clegane." There he goes again - making things bloody uncomfortable. He always thought Prince Gendry was a good lad, a little too carefree and too buggering naive but still good. 

In the past, it was clear the prince thought the smallfolk lived a noble life, free from the duty and obligations of being highborn. Now the boy opened his eyes, looked around, and started see this shit world for what it really was. The prince still wasn't near mindful enough yet, he couldn't see the danger his Lannister family presented to him personally. Let them try! No matter where the danger came from, the hound would be standing right here - guarding his charge. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, this fic is so pretty - *dusts shoulders off*. I feel good about the direction of this fic, it'll be slow-going but steady. Thanks to everyone who give this fic a chance!
> 
> Next up: Bran Stark has been having strange dreams...


	5. Dreams Come True

# Bran

The dream always started the same: all around is pitch black, but he can feel warm silken skin sliding against his own while his hands explored familiar curves. Bran never had a woman in his life but somehow he knew just what to do, making love to the darkness. His arms held her body crushed against his chest, unconcerned with where he was or who she was, only needing her skin against his.

No weight pulled them in any direction: like floating in water but he could breathe easy, every lungful inhaled her sweet scent. He buried his face against her neck, kissing and nibbling at her pounding pulse. When his mouth touched the base of her warm throat, she began to tremble and moan softly. His own heart thundered within his chest as her fingers tangled in his curls, gently pulling to guide his mouth to her own. 

Her soft lips molded against his, spreading otherworldly warmth down past his chest to tighten his stomach. His body felt lighter than air, as though they were rising away from the earth to float among the clouds. Those gentle hands, both unfamiliar and yet somehow known well by him, locked around his neck. The movement of her mouth on his grew more urgent, sending raw yearning tearing through his body.

Bran could feel her pulse coursing through his own body: as if, their veins intertwined and connected. His hands roamed over her curves as her warm palms slid down over his shoulders and her arms moved to curl around his ribs. His breath turned heavy, racing as his hands wrapped around her waist. Her soft gasp whispered across his ear as he embraced her tighter to meld their bodies together.

They were separate, yet joined: he was inside her as she pressed her whole self into him. Alone together in this inky abyss, she was one being with him. As they entwined together, rolling and spinning slowly like a dance, she called his name over and over: soft at first and then more insistent. Pleasure, so vivid in this endless darkness, flashed across his eyes: it's stunning brilliance almost painful to behold. 

A pale moon rose, casting an eerie light over the desolate forest they floated above. A strong breeze sent red leaves fluttering, swirling, and falling around them. He almost caught a glimpse of her face before the wind swept her black hair to hide her features. A sudden gust tore her warm body out of his embrace and Bran reached out, desperately searching for her, wanting to pull her close again. Without her warmth, the cold air penetrated his skin as he fell to the damp ground. 

"Bran," her voice called his name, neither passionate nor terrified. "You belong with me." Bran took off, sprinting towards the supposed direction of her echoing call. The woods grew dense, stray branches pulling at his hair and scratching his naked skin.

"Where are you?" He tried to shout in the direction of her voice but strong winds came to rip his voice away. "I can't find you!"

"You know where you are supposed to be." The calm in her voice eased his heart pumping wildly from panic. A map flashed in front of his eyes but dissipated as quick as it came. The bright white moon rose high enough, illuminating a path towards a clearing. As he ran forward, an enormous weirwood tree came into focus: Bran knew she was there. 

The closer he drew to the tree, the sky turned shades of violet, pink and finally red as fresh blood on snow. A massive red moon rose behind the towering weirwood while the white moon paled and began to set. Bran felt that time was running out, knowing time had no meaning in this place. A river of red gushed from the earth as the tree's roots shot up from the earth.

His legs and lungs burned from the effort as he continued sprinting towards the tree: not out of bravery but his fear of losing her. It seemed to take hours for him to reach the weirwood, as tall as the walls of Winterfell. In the center of the tree, he could see the pale form of a woman pinned against the trunk. Roots sprung up from the earth to bind her arms and legs while the bark of the tree began to consume her. 

Without hesitation, he began tearing off the bark that covered her yet it grew back as fast as his hands could rip it. The vine-like roots binding her limbs cut his hands when he pulled on them, too strong to break. If only he had a sword or even a well-sharpened dirk!

"Stay with me," she begged this time, so pitifully with shining eyes. Tears streamed down his face, from frustration: from the knowledge that he could not win. Bran had already lost this battle every night he slept. This tree would take her away from him and he would never see her again. Why did the old gods want her?!

"I can't do anything," he whimpered, beaten as he dropped his useless bloody hands. When he gave up trying to save his lady, the vines restrained him as well, cutting into his skin. Finally, in the end, at least they were together. Bran relaxed as the tree began to consume him, giving into his fate.

"You can do anything, Bran." Gray bark covered her face but he could still see her eyes, blue like the sky in summer. "I belong with you," she whispered.

"Hodor," a familiar voice jerked Bran awake, soaked in a cold sweat, to see Hodor standing over him. Bran fell back against his pillows, dragging the sleeve of his sleeping tunic across his clammy forehead. It was more vivid every time, but still the same dream he endured every night for a fortnight. 

"Hodor," the giant insisted.

"Right, Lord Baratheon is coming today." Bran rubbed his tired eyes as he sat up in bed. "I slept through breakfast, didn't I?" Ever since the green dreams started, father permitted additional time to sleep in.

"Hodor," the giant commiserated. Not long ago, Bran discovered he possessed an amazing connection with Hodor, similar to his bond with Summer. They were always able to find each other without having to look very long. Sometimes he dreamed of feeling elated, watching himself play with all his siblings: that was Hodor's happy dream. 

"Thanks for coming to wake me," he tossed the covers aside and shivered from the abrasive cold. "It's getting much colder now." Yet the Others never came to him in his sleep anymore, only the crying woman. Her face was never revealed but he remembered her eyes every time he closed his own. Bran pushed himself up, swinging his legs around and hissing as his feet touched the icy stone floor.

He stood up and strode to his wardrobe, pulling out the first tunic and breaches he found and quickly putting them on. When he turned around, he noticed the gentle giant held out a crushed roll in his hand, offering it. Bran smiled as he accepted the bread, it still tasted fine despite its crushed shape. He threw a cloak on and rushed out of his chambers, hurrying down the stairs towards the front of the castle.

His family waited at the front gate, already open and letting in Lord Baratheon's party. The Lord of Dragonstone was accompanied by a small procession of guards surrounding a carriage. Bran dashed to take his place between his younger brother and elder sister. Stannis Baratheon dismounted his horse, handing off the reins to one of his men before approaching.

"Stannis," father greeted the tall dour-looking man as he drew near. 

"Ned," he clasped father's hand before gesturing to the figure approaching behind him. "My daughter, Shireen." The petite lady wore a thick veil that obscured her features: the rumors say she was afflicted with greyscale while an infant.

"Lord Stark," the daughter bowed her veiled head. "Thank you for this warm welcome." That voice, delicate yet so assured. It matched the woman from his dreams in every trait from tenor to tone! Bran struggled to hide his sudden trembling, thankful for his thick cloak.

"My wife, Catelyn, and our children," father made introductions but Bran barely heard him. "Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon."

"I welcome you to our home, Lord Baratheon." Mother curtsied gracefully, reminding Bran to stop gaping like a fish and act as a lord's son should.

"Thank you, Lady Stark." That lovely voice spoke again from underneath the dark veil, setting his heart racing. "We've had a long journey and would like to make ourselves presentable before supper."

"Of course," mother indicated that the lord and his daughter should follow her. Bran's eyes trailed the veiled figure until she disappeared into the castle.

"Bran," Arya whined, "are you listening to me?!"

"Huh?" Bran turned to face his annoyed sister, never even noticing she was talking to him.

"Still asleep, little brother?" Arya grinned and bumped her fist into his shoulder. "I was saying that we should-"

"Not now, Arya," he interrupted. "I'll listen to anything you say later, I promise." Bran turned and headed straight for the kennels to find Summer.

"Fine," his sister called after him, "I'll just ask Jon instead!" Bran didn't have time for his sister's endless troublemaking, no matter how fun it could be. That lady, she was the woman from his dreams, he felt certain of that. Summer was alert and waiting for him in the kennels, scratching at the door until he opened it.

"Come on girl," he patted his leg so Summer would follow and hurried towards the castle. After questioning a few servants he passed, he learned the location of the lady's room. By the time he reached the door to her guest chambers, his heart pounded wildly. What could he say? Bran had no idea what he intended to say or do but knocked on the door anyway. There was no answer: his hand fell to his side in defeat, feeling deflated.

"Can't you sniff her out?" He directed the question to Summer but the wolf only cocked her head to the side and let out a low wine. "You know," he insisted, "the woman in the veil: Lady Shireen Baratheon." Summer's tongue lolled out of her mouth as she gave him a wolfy grin. "You only understand me when you want to." Bran stopped to consider all of the places she might want to explore, this being her first time so far north.

"If I came to Winterfell for the first time," he mused, "from a faraway place completely different. What would I want to see first? Dragonstone is a rocky island that used to belong to the Targaryens. I don't think there's a heart tree there, should we go investigate?" Summer gave a high-pitched yip and waved her fluffy tail. Bran accepted that response as an agreement and raced out of the castle towards the godswood.

As he headed deeper into the snowy woods, he spotted a dark figure weaving between the trees. The lady floated like a shadowy ghost, as if her feet did not touch the snow beneath her. Bran inhaled a deep breath, stealing himself for whatever might come next, and followed Lady Shireen.

# Shireen

Since arriving in Winterfell, she was around more people than all her life combined. She needed to get away and find someplace quiet to sit with her thoughts. The heart trees of the Old Gods' religion always fascinated her when she read about them. Shireen was so used to being alone her senses tuned acutely to any person nearby. Why that young man followed her, she could not possibly comprehend. What might he want from her? 

She reached the heart tree - its branches covered a hot spring that swirled with steam. After taking her time to admire the tree up close, she sat on a gnarled root to pick up a fallen leaf. Its scarlet hue shone against the white snow and soft grey bark of the weirwood. Dragonstone seemed so cold and colorless in comparison to this seventh heaven. The middle Stark boy still lurked just outside the godswood, thinking she did not notice him following her.

"My lady," he called out as he finally approached. That wolf was enormous yet its paws on the snow made no sound at all! Beneath her veil, she rolled her eyes, wishing he had just left her in peace.

"I knew you were there the whole time," she ignored him, continuing to admire her leaf. This was her first time seeing such a strange and wondrous beauty and hated to have the moment interrupted.

"I didn't want to startle you." He moved closer, almost cornering her with his giant wolf but Shireen refused to be intimidated. Why would he seek her out?

"You did not," she continued to snub him and hoped he would go away. 

"I am Bran Stark," he bowed slightly as he made the unnecessary introduction. "Lord Stark's second son."

"I am aware," still Shireen refused to look in his direction. It grated on her nerves to be so rude to a stranger yet he was being far more discourteous. Why would he not go away and leave her in peaceful isolation?! Neither of them spoke for a long while and the silence grew more awkward as time stretched on.

"What are you doing out here?" He simply insisted on inserting himself into her privacy! This boy obviously had no sense of tact and could not pick up on a hint to save his life!

"I was enjoying my solitude," she snapped, turning to face him. Oh, she did not notice before - he indeed appeared quite handsome. His dark eyes watched her with some unreadable emotion as the breeze blew his soft curls against his face.

"Oh," he bowed his head and adorably his oversized pet assumed the same ashamed pose. Shireen almost burst into laughter, barely managing to hold it back. Bran Stark stood there, seeming to be in deep deliberation. What a strange young man, or was this how northern men behaved? "Then I'll go," he finally decided.

"Wait," she stopped him from leaving but then for the life of her couldn't think of why she'd do such a thing. Shireen searched her brain for a rational reason why she called to him after chasing him away. Naturally, this was his home and she was being discourteous. "Were you here looking for me or your old gods? I do not mean to intrude on your prayer."

"No, I am not so devout." The lazy grin that passed over his lips made her stomach tighten in the queerest way. "I was passing by when I saw you come this way." That still did not answer her question of why he approached her in the first place. Suddenly she was not so anxious to be rid of company, perhaps because he could explain more about this fascinating tree.

"It is beautiful here," she turned around to look up into the red leaves. "Not much grows near my home - we do have a lot of rocks though."

"You'll freeze if you sit here too long," his warning seemed slightly hypocritical as he moved to sit down beside her.

"I am not cold," she caught him trying to peer through her veil, "or rather I don't mind it as I've always been cold." His eyes searching for hers sent a flush to her cheeks and she looked away, even knowing he could not see her reddened face. "Why would you come looking for me?"

"I thought you might be lost," he lied - it was so obvious even through her veil. Her defenses were building up again as she grew suspicious of his intentions. They had only just met and he was already lying to her.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a terrible liar?" Shireen did not bother to hide the sharpness in her voice.

"My sister says that," he leaned away from her as a wary expression crossed his face. Did he truly think he was fooling anyone?

"She is correct," she snapped, standing up and whirling around to face him. "Some may think my affliction dulled my senses but I assure you my mind is sharp. Tell me the truth or leave my sight-!"

"I saw you," he interrupted her tirade, jumping to his feet to face her. "In my dreams." For a long moment, Shireen could only stand there, blinking at him and confusion. Without a veil to hide his face, she clearly saw the flush coloring his cheeks. That sounded like - it couldn't possibly be - flirting?

"For the love of the gods," she stared in incredulous wonder at the young man. He was attempting to seduce her! Now she had certainly lived long enough, that a man would think Shireen Baratheon an easy conquest! This lordling was sadly mistaken if he thought her foolish enough to fall for such a silly seduction tactic. "I don't have time for childishness." Shireen turned on her heel and began to march back to the castle.

"It's the truth!" His hand closed around her wrist to stop her departure, his touch was surprisingly gentle. He did not try to turn her around, only let go when she stopped retreating. "I saw you, I dreamt of you every night: I swear it's true."

"What did I do in your dreams?" Shireen did not dare turn around, the heat in her cheeks spread down her neck and flushed over her chest.

"You cried," his answer surprised her as much as the honesty she detected in his voice. "No matter what I did to try and help, I could not save you." His voice trembled, sounding close to tears! "And you called for me, by name." Was this 'terrible liar' capable of such impeccable guile?

"I don't believe any of this," she could not speak above a murmur because - insanely - part of her wanted to believe him.

"I wish I didn't either," he whispered.

"Don't follow me," she lifted her skirts in a most unladylike fashion and hurried towards the castle. Thank the gods he did not give chase - nonetheless, the further she got away from him the more her unsettled mood increased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Green dreams are hard *_*  
> But writing Bran was fun, especially from Sheri's POV. He's a character I really love but don't get inspired to write him often. There's a special place in my heart for this ship.
> 
> Next up: Sansa POV chapter: "A Prince is Coming"
> 
> For fanfic writers (or just for reference) I found these links useful:  
> <http://www.westeros.org/BoD/Articles/Entry/1718>  
> <http://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Customs>


	6. A Prince Will Come

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/prince_will_come/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=171251628)

# Theon

She's recently grown a healthy pair of teats and kept throwing shy smiles his way. Maybe it was just because he was bored, not being able to visit the whorehouse lately. Robb would say it's wrong to seduce an innocent maid. But that didn't mean it was so wrong, wanting to steal a few kisses in a dark corner. It would give the maiden a thrill, nothing more. What woman wouldn't want the attention of the heir to the Iron Isles? 

"Pretty Jeyne," he stepped into her path, "how are you this fair day?"

"Why are you behaving like this lately?" Jeyne looked annoyed by his interruption but likely, she was just playing coy to get under his skin.

"Don't know," he smirked at her scowling.

"I have duties to attend." She tried to brush past him but he stepped again into her path to block her. "Leave me be, Theon Greyjoy."

"My name from your lips," he grinned, "does things to me." A light blush reddened her cheeks and Theon's grin widened. Usually maidens didn't interest him but they certainly have their own allure.

"Don't be crude," she hissed.

"I wasn't," he protested with a smirk. "What were you thinking?" Her blush deepened, confirming his salacious accusation. "You're a wicked one with an innocent face, aren't you?"

"Let me pass," her severe expression reminded him of the almighty Lord Stark. Such a pretty girl should never look so bloody grim.

"Give me one kiss and I'll leave you alone," he was willing to compromise. Never let it be said that Theon Greyjoy wasn't a fair man.

"If you don't stop this nonsense," she glowered at him and somehow still managed to look pretty. "I will ask Lady Sansa to speak with Lord Stark on my behalf."

"Just one innocent peck on the cheek," he tapped the side of his face, "and you'll never have to deal with my pestering again." By the look on her face he would guess she would rather stick a knife in his heart then press her lips against his cheek. He nearly fell over when she huffed out a groan before leaning forward with her lips pursed. She should've known he would turn his head to steal a kiss.

"You bastard!" Jeyne angrily scrubbed at her lips with the sleeve of her dress. "How dare you?!"

"Foul language too?" Theon shook his head with exaggerated disappointment. "You seem such a proper young woman." Without another word Jeyne put both hands on his chest and shoved him out of her way before storming off. He watched her leave, chuckling and feeling a bit less bored. Since the lord ordered everyone to stay within the walls: it was driving him mad! Robb rounded the corner behind Jeyne, passing Theon without noticing him.

"Ho, Robb!" Theon called out to get Robb's attention. His friend turned around and there was something wrong with his expression. "Fine day, isn't it?" 

"What's got your mood up?" Robb tried to smile but it looked a little weak, as if something occupied his mind. Likely, he was feeling just as bored as Theon was.

"It isn't my mood that's up," he quirked his brows. "There's a certain fair maiden." Theon rolled his eyes when Robb gave him a reproachful look. "Don't give me that look: I know what's not allowed." They had both spent too much time cooped up in this castle. "I think I'll take a horse out, it's a bit stifling-" 

"No," Robb cut him off before Theon could even finish speaking. "You can't go out, there have been too many bad storms, and it's dark early-"

"You worry worse than old Nan," he waved off his friend's needless concern. Theon was a man grown and he could make his own decisions. "If you won't come-"

"You aren't going anywhere!" The sudden commanding tone of his friend's voice shocked Theon. "Father ordered everyone to stay inside the walls." Since when did Robb obey his father's every command?

"What he doesn't know-" 

"I'm the son of the lord here," he narrowed his eyes, "and I'm ordering you to stay within these walls." 

"Ah, that's right." Theon rapped his closed fist against the top of his head. "I almost forgot I'm a prisoner here. See you around," he turned his back on Robb and headed towards the kitchen.

"Theon, it's not like that!" Robb's protests fell on deaf ears. "Theon," the lord's son called but wouldn't get an answer. Theon wanted comfort from someone who really cared and that left only one person in this entire castle. The old cook, short and plump, smiled as he entered the kitchen.

"What's got that handsome face turned upside down?" She was missing a few teeth but her smile still made him feel better for some reason, maybe she was something like a grandmother. He met her when he first arrived in Winterfell, because he refused to eat with the Starks. The old cook found him pilfering the leftovers one night and instead of telling the lord she told him to come anytime he was hungry.

"I was almost a prince," he sulked bitterly as he sat on the stool beside her countertop. "Wouldn't I make a handsome prince?" She nodded and continued kneading some dough in a bowl. "Instead I'm Lord Stark's ward." At least he can count on one person to listen to his complaints. "I'd rather be a kitchen boy and spend my days with you." Theon slowly reached across the countertop to filch one of the freshly baked biscuits.

"Oi, you cheeky fellow!" She frowned at him as he stuffed half the biscuit into his mouth. "You only come round here for my biscuits." 

"Not only your biscuits," he eyed up a few kitchen maids as they passed. 

"You stay away from my young girls." Her scolding always had an indulgent edge to it. "They don't need your silver tongue tempting them into trouble."

"Would I do such a thing?" He gave the old woman his most charming smile. 

"If you thought you'd get away with it," she frowned back: knowing him too well.

"Do you think I can?" He grinned wickedly and she tsked her tongue at his mischievousness.

"Smart mouth on you, but not a lot of smarts in your head." She set her bowl of dough aside and stared seriously into his eyes. "Being the lord's ward might not be easy but it's a sight better than being a kitchen boy. Don't let me hear you even japing about such a thing. When your father and the lord put their differences aside, you'll be glad of Lord Stark's care."

"Even you lecture me?" Theon dropped the other half of his biscuit, no longer hungry.

"I only do it because I care about you," her usually cheerful face turned solemn. "Not because you're a lord's son or my lord's ward." If that wasn't true, he didn't really care: he was just here for the biscuits. Theon grabbed two handfuls of as many biscuits as he could carry and headed out of the kitchen. "You'll spoil your supper!" He didn't care about that either. Why should he care about anything when no one cared about him?

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/wager_made/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=171259402)

# Sansa

The dining hall was already dark by suppertime so she could barely see her food in front of her. Father commanded everyone from their highborn family down to the lowliest stableboy to conserve candles. Only one stick lit their table so Sansa had to be especially careful to eat like a lady. A modest stew served as their meal, with only a few preserved vegetables from the last summer harvest. Even better, fresh biscuits were served on the side.

"I have something to tell you all," father stood up at the head of the table, "the king is coming north." 

"Oh my goodness," Sansa covered her mouth as though to stop the sudden exclamation that slipped between her lips. Still, this was such exciting news! Later, she and Jeyne would have to go through her entire wardrobe to see what adjustments needed to be made.

"The king?" Arya seemed just as enthusiastic, sitting on the edge of her seat. "Is he bringing his knights and Kingsguard?" Oh gods be good, real live knights just like in the songs! How completely thrilling!

"Quiet down," he held up both of his hands to silence them. "He is bringing his heir," he looked straight at Sansa before glancing away, "and I expect you all to welcome them both." Her heart stopped beating... Was he hinting that Sansa might become engaged soon? Oh please, please gods, let it be true!

"Of course father," Sansa bowed her head demurely, trying to tamp down her sudden exhilaration. This news could mean her daily prayers would finally be answered!

"Yes father," Arya attempted a poor imitation of Sansa's posture. Their three brothers all echoed their understanding of father's command.

"I bet the prince is handsome and charming..." She stared off at nothing, trying to picture the prince's features based on the rumors she heard. He was supposedly fine looking and strong with dark hair and bright blue eyes. Everyone said that King Robert was exceedingly handsome in his youth. It could be the will of the gods, for a Stark and a Baratheon to at last join their houses.

"I bet he's an arrogant spoiled prudish windbag," Arya seemed incapable of agreeing with anything Sansa ever said.

"Arya," she scolded. "You shouldn't judge a person without knowing them."

"You did," her sister snorted a laugh.

"That... is not the same," Sansa protested. "You're still such a child so you don't understand."

"You're falling in love with a fantasy and call me a child?" Arya had this way of making everything Sansa did seem stupid. She thought she was so smart! If her sister were truly smart, she would realize that scowling so much made her look uglier than she truly was.

"Ladies don't bicker, Sansa." Septa Mordane admonished only Sansa, having given up on Arya long ago. 

"Yes, Septa." She resumed enjoying her stew, which was actually quite delicious despite its simplicity. They were lucky to have such wonderful cooks and Winterfell, who knew how to make a fine meal with few supplies. The sisters waited long enough for the woman to be distracted before continuing the conversation.

"One of us must be wrong," she whispered to her sister. Usually Sansa would not banter with Arya, it was pointless because neither ever conceded. Yet this was the prince of their realm, and possibly her future husband, so she had to defend him.

"Care to make a wager?" Arya wiggled her eyebrows about in a highly uncouth manner.

"If I am correct, and the prince is handsome and charming..." Sansa tapped her chin as she ruminated on the perfect revenge. "Ah, I want you to make yourself a new gown that you must wear to dinner while the king is here."

"You impress me with your vindictiveness," that Arya was impressed made Sansa feel slightly guilty. "If I win, you must refuse to marry the prince."

"My engagement should be off limits," Sansa protested as quietly as she could.

"Would you really want to marry him if I'm right?" Arya looked concerned... as if actually worried that Sansa was mentally slow.

"You are going to eat your words." Sansa refused to consider that the prince would be anything less than kindly and honorable.

"First, I'll eat this." Arya lifted her bowl and slurped up her stew like a common kitchen maid! "Father, I am finished - may I be excused?"

"You may," he smiled tiredly at Arya, who pushed away from the table and ran out of the dining room before mother could sputter a protest. Sansa took her time to savor her stew and waited patiently for father to excuse them all before leaving the hall. As she headed towards the sewing room, she spotted Arya standing with Jon, their bastard brother. Her sister insisted on being close with the living embodiment of their father's only disgrace. 

When Sansa was old enough to understand how bastards come to be born, she could not believe her father capable of being so dishonorable. Jon was very handsome so his mother was probably a beautiful seductress. She would have preferred to walk by without being noticed but they both looked up as she drew near. 

"My lady," Jon bowed and lowered his eyes respectfully.

"Jon," she nodded in his direction, not wanting to be rude. However, anything more than stiff politeness would be an insult to her mother. Naturally, she still loves her father dearly and already forgave him for his unfaithfulness. Times of war are difficult for the men who fight them and he made a common mistake.

"Oh please, you two." Arya snorted as she laughed, just like a wild boar. "I can't tell if you want to kill each other or just want each other."

"Arya!" Sansa recoiled at the disgusting words that came out of her younger sister's mouth. "How could you say that?!"

"I'm only being truthful," Arya shrugged.

"That's enough, underfoot." Jon gave their younger sister a stern look, an expression father wore often. If only he did not look so much like a Stark, Sansa would not believe he was their father's son.

"Good day to you both," Sansa nodded stiffly at both of them and held her head high as she walked away. As soon as she was around the corner, she fell against the stone wall, fighting back her anger so that she would not disgrace herself. How dare they make fun of her?! Her best friend, Jeyne Poole was always so much better at witty retorts.

"That got rid of her," Arya could not be more disloyal if she tried.

"You're wilder than a wildling," Jon chuckled... He had the nerve to laugh at her expense! "You know that, don't you?"

"It makes things fun," her sister was far too pleased with herself. "Now that Sansa doesn't tattle on me anymore." There is no point because Arya is beyond saving!

"Because they've given up on taming you, so it's no use." Of course Jon approved of Arya's bad behavior, though a true older brother would never encourage it. "Besides, I'm sure she thinks tattling is childish." Mother was right to be angry with Robb for asking Jon to stay instead of going to take the black.

"Everything is childish to the great Lady Sansa." Arya continued to insult her full-blooded sister with her lowborn brother. How could a lady of an ancient noble house be such a disgrace? 

"Soon to be Queen Sansa," Jon quipped, "if the prince gets a look at her." 

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/overheard/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=171260108)

"Gods old and new, save the kingdom." Arya continued mocking her own sister without a hint of shame. "Every citizen will be forced to dress our best and use proper table manners." Sansa's face burned from humiliation as her whole body trembled with anger.

"Or off with your head," Jon and Arya shared a laugh over his jest and Sansa could bear to listen no longer. She ran away, not aware of a particular direction, and collided straight into Robb.

"Sansa?" Robb held onto her shoulders to steady her. "Are you alright?"

"It's just the cold air making my eyes water," she quickly dashed the tears from her face and gave him a reassuring smile.

"Then get yourself inside where it's warm," he smiled kindly and released her. Part of her wanted to be angry with Robb for keeping Jon here in Winterfell. Her older brother had always been kind to her and she could not fault him the same way she blamed her sister. Men were supposed to have friendships with other men in their family but unmarried ladies should consort only with other women.

"Where is mother?" Sansa hated that her voice trembled as she asked the question.

"I saw her heading towards her chambers," his expression tightened with concern.

"Thank you Robb," she left in a hurry before he could ask her what truly was wrong. Robb and Sansa got along but were not close... Sansa was really only close to her mother and Jeyne.

"Mother?" She entered without waiting for an answer giving permission. 

"What is the matter, my dear heart?" Mother looked up from the sewing in her hand.

"I am just so happy, mother." Sansa forced herself to smile even though she wanted to cry. She closed the door behind her and moved to sit down in the chair beside her mother. "Do you think the prince will ask for my hand? I so long for a husband and children of my own."

"In time," mother had the most beautiful calming smile, "you shall have everything you ever dreamed." It seemed mother would be the only one sad to see Sansa leave. "Oh, sweet one, don't cry."

"I shall miss you terribly," she wiped away the tear that slipped from her eye. "You and father both."

"We will miss you as well," mother patted Sansa's cheek to comfort her. "Yet we are always in each other's hearts. My sweet girl is a woman now and it is time to dry these tears. You must be strong to be a mother."

"I will be stronger," she promised.

"That's my girl," mother's smile lightened Sansa's heart considerably.

"Will you brush my hair?" It might be childish that having mother brush her hair was still her favorite way to relax.

"It would be my pleasure," mother agreed and they walked together to the vanity, where Sansa sat down. She closed her eyes as the brush stroked gently through her hair. If the prince came to seek her hand in marriage, it would make all of her dreams come true. She would love him with all her heart and together they would make a family who respected each other and never excluded one member.


	7. The King and Company

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/king_is_coming/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=182958859)

# Arya

Winter had come in full force, flurrying around her family and other residents of the keep gathered just inside the gates of Winterfell. The old ones said that this was the worst winter in living memory and a few even whispered of some dark magic causing the storms. Father ordered everyone to stay within the castle walls and also offered shelter to any of the residents of Winter Town. Most smallfolk preferred their independence and Arya respected that.

The king was supposed to arrive at any moment with his heir in tow, but she suspected this was not a journey merely to arrange a marriage. Something more was going on and her parents insisted on keeping it from her. The way they see her would never change, no matter how old she got. Even though her parents hinted at securing an engagement for her as well, they still treated her like an errant child. If father acquired a marriage agreement, could she go through with it?

Even Jon insisted on 'protecting' her from whatever secret the men insisted on keeping to themselves. However, today she would insist on standing next to her half-brother to let them all be fully aware of her irritation at being left out. She preferred to stand beside her lowborn brother because only he accepted her true self. Jon loved her without any conditions attached to his affection and so she forgave his evasiveness. 

Tension over Jon mounted every day since he changed his mind about joining the Nights Watch. It seemed to Arya that her brother regretted his decision to stay in Winterfell even more since winter came. Therefore, she insisted on spending as much time with him as she could, despite her mother's endless nitpicking. Sometimes - often - she thought about getting up early one morning and leaving forever. She could explore other lands and meet interesting people of different cultures.

"Oh, where is Arya?!" She overheard her mother's worried queries growing louder but kept still and silent. Arya wanted her mother to turn around - to see where her youngest daughter chose to stand. It should not be up to her mother or father to decide her 'place'. They claimed she was a woman grown of a marriageable age, but that simply meant she was ready to be used for breeding. Not her, not ever.

"She was here a moment ago." Sansa looked around with wide eyes - senseless girl didn't even notice Arya slipping away long ago. None of them ever even noticed her unless she was 'making trouble'.

"In this storm I can hardly see the ground," mother bemoaned. "Where could that girl have gone this time?"

"You should move on, underfoot." Jon nudged Arya towards the front. "Your mother won't like you standing back here with me." It was not Jon's place either, telling her what to do.

"Mind yourself, brother." Arya stood firm, wanting to prove a point with her rebellion. Mother turned sharply and glared at her younger daughter in a most satisfying way. Good, let them all see what a rebel she is, better than being a 'lady' - better than being chattel.

"Arya, come here!" No one could miss the icy glare her mother flashed at Jon, because apparently he deserved the blame and credit for Arya's actions and tarnished reputation. Even before winter came, rumors were whispered about her and Jon spending so much time together. They spent as much time together before, nothing changed except she had teats now. All bastards were supposedly 'hot-blooded', whatever that meant. 

"I am fine right here," she disregarded her mother's request to stand up front. Mother had always told her to stay away from her half-brother but lately there was a harder edge to her orders. The ridiculous woman seemed to believe that the rumors could be possible! Although, after the queen's scandal, anything seems possible.

"Arya, move to the front and stand beside your sister," father insisted sternly but his body stooped a bit. He looked so tired lately and Arya's determination dissolved under her guilt for adding to his burdens. She held her head high and moved forward to stand beside her sister. "Behave yourself this once, for the sake of your mother's nerves."

"I have nerves as well," she retorted and planned to say more when figures on horseback emerged through the snowstorm.

"It's them!" Sansa pointed towards the open gate before covering her mouth with both hands. "Look, here they come!" The procession of horses poured into the gates, led by the king and his Kingsguard. Amongst the horsemen was a rider wearing an impressive bull helmet. Her sister pointed to the bull with a besotted look on her face. "Is that the prince?" Her idiot sister was already smitten with a man she never actually met. 

"I think so," she answered distractedly and pointed out the enormous man riding an impressive black stallion. "Over there's the hound-"

"Shh!" Mother looked straight at Arya, ignoring that Sansa was talking as well.

"He is so handsome, the prince." Sansa had the silliest look on her face, as if she was already in love.

"He's wearing a helmet," she hissed the retort, "you can't see his face!"

"Be quiet this instant!" If it were possible to kill with one look, mother would have done so long ago. In her eyes, Arya could do no right and Sansa could do no wrong. What point is there in trying to please a women who does not want to be appeased?

"I think he looks gentle," Sansa sighed dreamily.

"How can you possibly tell something like that?" Arya rounded on her sister, putting both hands on her hips as she gave Sansa a withering glare.

"Arya," mother scolded yet again, "stand still and behave like a lady for once!" Before Arya could argue the unfair treatment, father straightened his spine and moved forward to greet the king.

"Ned!" The portly king dismounted his horse and made straight for father. "Come here, you old man." King Robert threw his arms around father and the men hugged fiercely.

"How are you, Your Grace?" Father attempted to be courtlier but the king only rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"None of that now," the king grabbed father into another tight hug before releasing him. "This is my heir, Gendry." The prince had removed his helmet and - much to Arya's chagrin - he did appear quite handsome. 

"I am honored to meet you, my lord." The prince bowed respectfully to father. "My father speaks of you highly and often."

"His praises are undeserved, I assure you." Father could be modest to a fault because his sense of duty was so strong. "Come meet my family," he held out his hand to mother. "This is my wife, Catelyn."

"Welcome, King Robert and Prince Gendry," mother bowed to the royals and all her children followed her lead - including Arya. When she looked up, the prince's bright blue eyes were focused on her face. Her heart skipped a beat - fine, he was uncommonly handsome. "Please come inside the hall and out of this dreadful weather."

"Go ahead without me," the king addressed his son before turning to face father. "Ned, I want to see her."

"Father," the prince spoke in a strained whisper, "can't that wait-?" The king turned his back on his son and led the way into the snowstorm.

"Where is he going?" Arya watched the king and her father walking away.

"Don't you remember?" Sansa kept her voice a low whisper. "He was in love with aunt Lyanna... he wants to visit her. The poor king must still be heartbroken." 

"I suppose you were right about the prince being handsome." If Arya did not admit it, her sister would spend the whole week bragging about being right. "If you like simple-looking men with square jaws and broad shoulders."

"Is he not a dream come true?" Her sister's unrestrained glee was grating on Arya's nerves. "I think his eyes are blue, which means we would have blue-eyed children." They both watched as the prince held out his elbow to their mother to escort her into the hall. "Look how polite he is to converse with mother first. You have already lost, dear sister!"

"We shall see his true colors soon enough," she was not nearly ready to surrender. "I acknowledge nothing until we see how he acts when no one is looking."

"Don't count on winning our wager, sister." Sansa appeared mighty confident that she was in the right. "I already predicted that he would be handsome."

"I don't know why that encourages you," Arya snapped, feeling far more annoyed by the prince than she should. "Handsome men are rarely kind."

"Father is handsome and kind," Sansa countered smugly. "So are Robb and Bran."

"Jon too is even more handsome," she added pointedly and her elder sister winced. "That just means our family has handsome and kind men."

"Perhaps Prince Gendry was meant to be my family too," Sansa retorted, looking quite pleased with herself. Arya didn't bother to respond, planning to gloat all she wanted later - when proved right about the prince.

[ ](http://www.polyvore.com/we_are_family/set?.embedder=36710&.svc=copypaste&id=184418289)

# Cersei

Tyrion entered her chamber without knocking, somehow getting past the incompetent guard she posted outside her door. Cersei did not bother rising from her seat and continued pouring sweet white wine into her goblet. The liquid appeared so rich when poured - like flowing golden promises never fulfilled. If she drank enough, was this liquid not supposed to take away her pain? Even if she drank herself to sleep, the anguish never left her heart.

"You've been hiding in here for too long." Tyrion pulled out a chair to sit across from her. "This cannot go on." 

"You can't tell me what to do," she sneered at him before gulping down the entire contents of her freshly poured cup of wine. Cersei did not care to banter with her hateful brother while drowning in despair over having lost all of her children in one way or another. She could only guess at Gendry's sentiment towards her. Clearly, Joffrey hated her - the way he stared at her even caused her to fear for her life. Tommen could not even look at her without bursting into tears and running away.

"Stop acting like a child and think of your children!" He snatched the jug of wine away before she could pour another cup. The precarious state of her relationships with her sons aside, Myrcella - she could not even think of her daughter. The poor girl must be humiliated and devastated from so much betrayal. They had all left her behind to save themselves. If Cersei believed in the gods, she might beg their forgiveness. Her daughter's pardon was all she desired.

"My children are lost to me!" Cersei slammed her goblet down on the table to glare at her little brother for ripping her heart open again. "Myrcella is suffering alone," and Cersei bore all the blame - she abandoned her only daughter. Almost her entire capacity for hatred was reserved for Robert - yet unleashing her fury on this little creature abated her anger somewhat. 

"You forget Gendry is there to protect her," he insisted calmly - in that familiar arrogant way, like he always knew something she did not. Oh poor Gendry, how he must hate her! That Robert fathered him did nothing to diminish her love for her firstborn. From him, she learned the terror of motherhood and watched helplessly as he struggled to live. Her eldest was all sweetness and easy smiles - so strangely like Jaime in that one regard.

"Gendry is too soft to fight for her!" Fear gripped her as she imagined her easy-going son standing up against Robert. If only that pitiful excuse for a king would get to drunk and fall down a flight of steps! If only she controlled even one loyal person left in the Red Keep. That puffed up excuse for a king already rooted out her best spies. For a fool, the man has shrewd people working for him - Baelish and Varys. Pycelle was supposed to be her man, yet he betrayed her! 

"Now listen to me!" Tyrion thumped his small fist against the tabletop. "Gendry is strong and Myrcella might be even stronger. They will protect each other." He might actually be right about that. When the Maesters said her son would not live, he fought like a lion to survive. Gendry would be a great king someday, no thanks to his foolish drunken whoring father. "You are right: your son has a soft heart and will never hold your actions against his own sister."

"I don't know where he got that from," she murmured, "neither Robert nor I can be described as 'soft-hearted'." What if her son's generous heart hardened because of her disgrace? Could he ever forgive her and help clear the accusation against her and Jaime? Would it come to war before that could happen? 

"Perhaps he gets it from me," the corner of his mouth lifted into a wry smile. "I did help raise him." She rolled her eyes at that, no one else raised her children - all of their shortcomings were hers alone. "Give them some credit because they are Lannisters after all. We're the strongest house and everyone knows it. Well, Jaime is the strongest. I'm the cleverest. You're the most cunning. Father is the most boorish."

"He'll never look at me again," she glanced away to hide the childish tears in her eyes. Her worst fear was father would not pay a ransom even if it were demanded by the king. Even still, Myrcella's condition remained unclear and no ransom demand came! No brilliant plans formed in her mind to manipulate whomever she needed to save her children - she had nothing left.

"Oh he'll look," Tyrion laughed without humor. "A nice long sideways glance with enough icy malice to freeze a hot spring."

"It's different for me," she refocused a cold stare on her brother. "He hates you for being born wrong, but you didn't choose it. I chose to fail him, because I am a fool." Cersei knew that Jaime would never feel the same pain over the loss of their children's love. "Who falls in love with their own brother?! I risked everything and I lost." That night kept replaying over in her mind, they had always been careful. How could they have been so thoughtless?!

"I can admit our brother is incredibly handsome." Everything is a joke to Tyrion - he could not be counted on to take anything seriously. "I might fall in love with him if not for his affection for puns. Can't stand them myself."

"Are you gloating or comforting me?" She stood and snatched the jug sitting in front of him to refill her cup.

"We are family," Tyrion sobered and looked on her more kindly than he ever had. "Gendry and Myrcella are my family as well. We should get her back here safe and sound in your arms. Father doesn't have to approve, we will go behind his back if we have to. Robert has his price and between the three of us, we can manage it somehow."

"Three?" As soon as the word passed between her lips, she knew to whom he was alluding.

"Who do you think begged me to come here?" He raised a knowing brow.

"How is he?" Cersei avoided his eyes by taking a long gulp of her wine.

"Stop refusing to see him and find out." Tyrion and Jaime had a bond that Cersei never understood until this moment. For years, she thought Jaime pitied their younger brother and that Tyrion ingratiated himself for Jaime's protection. However, the men truly loved each other for she saw it clearly in Tyrion's eyes.

"I can't," the words wheezed out of her tight throat. "If I see him I won't be able to cut him out of my heart. Some say I don't have one, that I'm cold. It's that I don't trust my heart so I ignore it when I can. With Jaime, I can't ignore it. For my children, it aches as though my blood has turned to ash." Cersei wished the tears flowing down her face were simply a charade, meant to manipulate - in truth, they were the most honest tears of her life. "Tyrion, brother, help me get her back."

"I will," Tyrion reached across the table to give her hand an awkward pat. "We will bring Myrcella home." Cersei had born hatred for her younger brother all his life because he stole her mother from her. He turned their father into a cold and ruthless man when he had once been loving. Yet if he could help deliver her daughter to safety - all would be forgiven on her part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been forever since I updated this fic! How does the time slip away so unnoticed?

**Author's Note:**

> All credit for characters and universe goes to G.R.R.M.


End file.
